The Atlantic Ocean and I sigh
in unison against the shoreline
of Amagansett Beach
and as she inhales;
she drags the land above below,
one grain of sand at a time.

In a few generations
she will have devoured this entire beach,
eventually the whole Island
and with it the multi-million dollar estates
which decorate its topology
like an effigy to human vanity.

I would say never before in history
has there been so few with so much
who have done so little
but that would denote
some kind of significance
and they are hardly worth noting.

Keeper of the meaning
      Mindfulness a prelude
           The struggled literature
  it asked the way
The keeper,  
    contemplating the path
          Stopped to think about
       Natural things
Asking elders on the trail
Creating triads
         Depicting aspects  
                  of her answer
    To the question
What it means
And some;          
  were enlightened
             And air and breath and beauty
       Wrought wrath
Indigenous justices
    Things worth keeping
          To the keeper of meaning

Walking along the shore in the fog
My steps follow each other
Not thinking of the morning
Or the evening before
How does one recover?
Let the love come in
Open a heart to the wind
And the rays of the sun.
The small waves lap my feet
As one melts another grows
The endless push of the sea.
Another child.
Where does the love come from?
Can I create it from dust?
I am spent and dry
A barren well.
And the waves cover my feet
I sink slightly in the sand
The water is warm
I walk toward a point
In the distance.
Steps. Steps.
It gets no closer.
The waves continue
My feet ever wet.
Nature never falters
A well never barren
A sea never dry.