(Published in Cacophony anthology)
Weathered cliffs stand guard
over a white beach cove,
the wind’s salty breeze barely a brush
across unsullied sands we’ve traveled far to reach
and stroke with the soles of our feet.
We arrive exhausted at this tranquil shore.
Now we can be still,
enjoy the swallow of fine powdered sand,
enter soft rippling waves,
revel in the cerulean tide’s caress,
clasp the coastal arc’s calm, welcoming hand
with our own beleaguered one.
—a faraway corner of the world that lulls like a warm cup of tea
Sounds hush, save for an occasional seabird’s call,
remove us from uncivil discourses of our own making,
raging wildfires of our own making,
torrential rains of our own making,
unbearable heat waves of our own making,
and a war not far away (also of our own making?)—
all reduced to a shadow barely noted,
like the fleeting blink of an eyelid,
every so often breaking our focus for a fraction
of a second, when we’re subtly reminded
of the mess we’ve left behind
and ask, “What was that?”
