The long breeze pushes and moves past
me unceasingly at the window
as if it would take away all
my baggage of loss and hurt if it could.
Serene and blue and green
the low tide vastly calm for now
says ceasing can be okay too:
you can drop your lifelong fretting.
Two seagulls slowly glide past,
astonishing
with their sparkling white wings flapping,
hinting that there will always be meanings
not understood but only glimpsed.
Clusters of fishing boats stilled and
aligned
like an occult mirror image
of the oncoming shoals of fish.
And the morning sunlight,
shy as if returning unannounced,
enormously open, as the final backdrop
of found things – like birth, death,
hunger, voyages, memories –
upon which everything comes to pass.
Imagination? Most probably.
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