Sitting

Flying to celebrations
in window seat,
seeing
tips of rugged brown, no green,
above unexpected mist …
hard to grasp partly hidden bulk,
hard to visualize while
shaken by unseen sky pockets:
like remembering early childhood while
navigating today’s turmoil;
like imagining sandy paths for early morning run
when only heavy fog
kisses darting eyes,
when only lapping waves and
screeching gulls are heard,
when only fearing -
contemplating -
deadly misdirection.

Better to sit and wait,
perhaps,
trying not to visualize.

Looking out again, misty ground also
brown, I think,
and carved with wavy meanderings,
perhaps roads or rivers … I
wonder
of the architect’s view -
of beginnings and
endings –
of directions…

so, seated frozen on foggy beach,
carefully self spotted,
piercingly seeking waves,
reassuringly comforted by
falling leaves nearby
(with run in fearful halt,
with misted mind in midst of thought),
how difficult to contemplate
a world away from
knees and thighs - the
sand beneath - shell devoid; the
curled sea - foggy blue; the
salt smell – solitude; the
stillness - the
emptiness.

The sun now shiny hot,
the window shutter closed,
eyelids pressing -
pressure painting colorful swirls in darkness,
anticipating landing with
mind longing
for leaping -
for celebrations,
for meetings of the unexpected,
discoveries of the old and unresolved,
leaping and longing -
knitting with wispy, sandy
strands of misty thought
scattered on sandy thighs,
weaving journey cloths
with strands of seashore mist,
longing and leaping
for movement,
to be full of
movement,

leaping to feet –
to be running once more,
jogging and feeling
wet sand bare between toes,
running and listening for
lapping and screeching,
following colorful swirls in the darkness
of closed lids,
longing and leaping
to move and run forward,

carrying a fallen leaf,
just in case –

Bruce V. Baron
Seeker
2/2/06