In a straw sun-hat,
watching planes
craft graceful arcs
in low-tide May,
you're thinking back
to years ago.
Tying knots in sailor's rope,
you wrapped your wrists
in salty fiber
in hopes the tethers would keep you
steady.
But you're still tottering
on the egde of summer,
spring in your fragile fingers,
one last crocus
left to bloom.
For summer always pulls the gold
from your hair,
forms your legs
into skinny slivers,
calls you out to sea,
but not back home.
And you're begging the sand spit
to see white caps again,
like it does in
chilly winter -
because there's no fear of sailing away,
when the ocean
is too rough.


