Each afternoon I walk through a wave
of trees. A tiny patch of the Tongass, a river
between condos, stores, a long rainy
street. Each day, I hope for a rain
of needles from the spruce, for a wave
of rich green scent to weave into the river
of my hair. I breathe in this river
of moss, and old man’s beard raining
from the ancient trees. I feel a building wave
of relief. I’m a wave, breaking fresh. A rainy river, brimming.
The Work of Water
I need a wave.
stone of ocean, tossed up
full and sleek.
I step carefully on rocky
there. I lift it. Cerulean
sea glass. One leaf
of ocean, in my palm.
Gathering the Sea
There is a tribe of us
who walk the beaches of the world
with our heads down
searching. Here, we bow
to pick up a sleek shell.
There! A curl of aqua glass,
a leaf of water cupped
in our palm. It can live now
on a windowsill, in a coat
pocket. How to explain this
longing? You can see us anywhere
there is a little strip of rock
or sand along the sea. We who
need to touchstone
the whole ocean
as we move through our days.