I do not need to see the ocean—
It is enough to just sit here,
where the waves land,
back against the patience of stone,
as waves fumble into the shore—
a quiet gathering of salt and foam.

The air thickens with brine,
weaving itself into my lungs—
seeping into the lines of my hands.
I taste it—in the hollow found
between my thoughts,
where words begin even before
they have been given letters
to stitch together.

I am not looking to surrender—
just to let something greater than myself
move through me, willingly.
I let the tide write its own language
against my skin, against the silence
that beckons me, making me
part of it all.

This is how a poet listens—
not with tired eyes or hands,
just the slow inhale of salty mist,
and the knowing that words will come
only after the waves have spoken.

Here as I sit, leaning gently
against my favorite boulder.

I want to be
Like
Entangled particles,
You and me,
Wherever we are
I'll know how you feel.

Hanging in a leaden sky
Gulls, in tight formation, fly.
Heavy snow's cascading flare
Sodium sharpness filling air.

Heaving waves carousing fen
Ocean's scent, aloft.. .and then
The skiff with oarsman pulling tight
Materializing from the night

Braving, now, a heavy sea
Puffing pipe, irreverently.
Oblivious of mounting gale
Abandons oar to set a sail

Skimming sharp to gravel beach
Shrugs aside hazards reach.
Wading into pounding foam
Smiling thought of ***, at home.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ