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Poem

Like silent sentries
in a row
the pylon docks
await my arrival.
It is low tide as I
step onto the
gangway.
Crusty barnacles
cling tenaciously 
to the pylons
as salt sea water
laps the rocky 
shoreline.

A lanky blue heron
carefully picks
it's way
between the fingers 
of the dock slips.
A cool breeze
picks up
and the boats 
respond
bobbing to and fro.
Halyard lines clang
against the masts of
sailboats
as weather vanes
turn toward the prevailing
northwest winds.

The pungent smell of
salt air
and the cool mist 
against my face
evoke thoughts of
escape
and high sea
adventures.
To sail away without
a care
and maybe never
to return. 

The glories of the 
ocean breeze waft gently
over my sun kissed face.
Prism rays draw me
toward the lapping
shoreline, and I feel
young and free.

This place is where
I am truly me
where my spirit is
released, and as I
breathe in the
fresh salt air
I give myself over
to the sea.    






Written on 4/19/2007

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