 |
| East |
A width of sand, a few hundred yards
where the wind is the thing,
a wind you can lean on,
muscular and with intent,
and the turning earth,
and the circling moon,
and the roar of it all,
the surf of your passing,
you at the edge still working,
gathering strength where the sun
rises and sets in salt water,
expecting the next system out of the tropics,
always the next storm
gathering beyond the curve of the globe,
and you're ready, even if this is the one
that unmoors you from the planet,
composing one more line and getting it down
in case someone cares to read it
at the bottom the sea.
 |
| West |
