On the Edge

Like sand on the beach,

I await the tidal flow of your love.

Still, prone, stretched,

In the wind and sun,

I am quiet, pensive, and yet available.

I know that soon your frothy coldness

Will wash over me again,

To inundate me,

To suck at me,

To bubble and gurgle around me.

In your ebb and flow

My grains collide and separate.

Only the sandpipers will witness this.

But they will be too busy,

Probing my fringes for dinner,

To notice our passion.

I love the way

Your waves smash me,

And rearrange me,

And clean me,

And throw interesting treasures

Of wood, shell, and feather

Upon my nakedness

This is the jewelry

With which you have adorned me

For countless aeons.

Twice a day since always,

We have met like this

And never have our meetings

Been repetitious.

Lovers must walk this place,

And so too, philosophers, poets

And people with wounds.

Children, surfers, and dog lovers

Walk and run here, too,

All of them,

Healed in one way or another

In our meeting,

Our passion,

Our freshness.