First day of spring, we walk the beach
under a milky, pearlescent sky, the sea
quiescent, chalky like the underside
of an oyster shell. In the distance,
water fades to air at a ghostly horizon.
Spicy salt and rotting fish scents,
wheeling gulls calling shrilly, waves
lapping at sand that gives way underfoot
and fills my shoes, just like always.
Walkers of all ages and complexions
dot the shore, but repel
like common-pole magnets as we
approach in these Coronavirus days.
Solitary children build castles for tides
to devour, a couple toss a football,
and two teen girls laugh while dancing
wildly to music only they can hear.
Bearded, wearing a ballcap, holding
a wooden staff, a man stops and smiles.
“Nice day for the world to end,”
he chuckles. “I won’t repent.”
We fear ice, fire and thunder,
but a last day in billions of years,
when the sun’s corona fades
and flares-out, may be quiet like today.
Just as when the twin towers crashed
in flame and dust, we seek solace
at the sea from which all life came.
In centrifugal times we’re drawn to the water,
seeking something, we know not what.
