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Atlantic Breathing

trees


“We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean. But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop.”

– Mother Teresa


Atlantic Breathing
 
 long gulls cry as they pull sea to shore
pointed teeth of outer reef foam at the mouth
in never end of lash and crash of waves
granite fingers point the way back
into grueling roil and toil of anticipation
to own more land
 
stipple starfish and ripple clam
cling to vine and stone
lullabies awash with right whale song
 
to walk your sea-cluttered edges melting
water and sand natural sculptures
into your blurred line of horizon
while capturing ocean gems of
 glass and shell
 
ships bobble like ocean flowers
cutting through viridian depths to stir
seaweed beds until they weave
like girlish chorus
preparing for a well-metered chant
 
crick and crack of gray birds
speak in klatches of big ones that got away
and dolphins dive deep then drive to draw arcs in sky
then drop through wind-capped wildness
like sleek commas not knowing
exactly where to be
 
loons leave blue in evening skies
in fluttering against coastal reeds
while others seek night in burled trees
sucking salt from briny air
 
night hovers close gap between night and day
a ruffled fog swings wide arms around
last raptured flight of egret’s snap-eyed drop
 
and out beyond in sudden stars,
water palpitates
pants and continues to lap with
 lathered tongue
and ever gnaw with smaller nibbles
a sudden hush, secrets of midnight’s
 nightly swarm
a sought warmth
 moon-bathing seals  stumble
on granite out-croppings to pass the night less fearful
 
The Atlantic sighs and breathes ancient aching annotations
noted by old geezers who no longer sail
but shuck clams and  tell you their stories
of wrecks   of ocean mysteries  and of the sea
as if she were a woman moody as hell
yet so seductive that they yearn and yarn
to anyone who walks their clapboard docks
or sit upon their granite shelves
to mark time that is counted
 in numbers of waves 


Poem By Carol Dezjarlais


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