Crossings I


I am beyond cold and now part of this landscape.  For an hour I have been standing in darkness listening to each wave find it’s voice, rage pounding onto sand and then quick like a woman afraid of being abandoned, taking herself back, small, whispering herself away.  I have spoken this dialogue so many times that now I listen as if I could finally understand the incomprehensible.  To pretend to other when there has always been I and only I here in the first beginning light of dawn.  To want to feel the power of that rage, the wave finding itself large and ominous, to crash suddenly in demand as if there were someone to hear, the subtle shift of a face turned towards the possibility of yes, where before a stranger had gazed; a shoreline to change, a andscape to carve, to be held fast in time as part of the scenery forever instead of the inevitable deafness of sand and finally the desperate curling inward, defeated and small.  I am like these waves roiling through the dense grey fog of early morning, feeding on forward motion, coming up enormous and curled for the splendid overpowering of whatever might be in my way, which happens to be only a few willing grains of sand, your polite and distant good-bye, and my retreat, confused and small, shamed into amnesia.  Which is what allows me to re-invent myself with you, over and over, like the wave, caught forever in the moment of beginning.