in whitewashed tree –has not put off buds in several seasons,
its base a clench of scrub, marsh elder beach heather heath, and ahh about it all the smell of late fall, so sweet wax myrtle on the cheek-filled low trill of bayside birds–
a buoy. single
stripe of red
stranded there twilight, holochrome weightless trundle of moonlit fishing line a rack of time, & sun sea to tree warped space holding hallow home of feathered winds
& so many eyes.
what storm raised
waters so high? it has been a long time since i have called this home, and i am surprised when, the following season, after two years of making acquaintance red-striped buoy no longer hangs.
inconsequential but, the weight of my own
unanticipated expectations draw a sour to my mouth and disappointment to my chest who? would cut that down, i find myself saying to sulphur mudflats, low tide
tumps of dried sea grass, crunched and flattened
under my boot, &
birdless wind, no response