The Maine Coast
1 December 2008
It's almost winter on the coast of Maine.
The vast unseen spaces in the curtain
are penetrated by light casting shadows
about the bedroom, the walls, the floor,
and that mound that in the middle of the night
almost rolled off and onto the floor
but barely awake had righted itself,
returned to dreams and turned out to be you.
In the dawning light the mound awakes,
turns its head, and rolls clumsily out of bed,
climbs into sweats, sweater, socks and shoes:
still trapped in dreams but simultaneously,
precariously, awake to the daybreak dreams
on the boundary of distinct worlds:
you bound out the door, make your way down
winding wooden stairs to the coastline:
your morning ritual walk along the coastline,
traversing the rocky boundary,
stepping carefully on uneven ground,
beneath the sky, beneath your feet,
dark wet rocks that will not retain snow:
water, the origin of life and death,
earth, the landscape of life and death,
and the music that unites them.
You listen to the music as you walk.
You stare at the distant light:
a kaleidoscope of muted colors
through strands of translucent clouds
creating a thin curtain for the lightshow.
And in an immeasurable instance
the curtain rises and you almost know
everything . . .
but then the cold spray shocks your face,
and in the shock of it, you know
that you need to not know.
© 2008, Satya J. Gabriel