The
ocean casts its net again and again
white
foamy fingers of lace
trace
shadows on the sand
an
EKG line stretching far down the long early morning beach
heartbeat
of the sea
Found
myself in conversation with Dad today near the spot where we once returned a
handful of his ashes to the sea. He liked this brilliant sunny day; was happy
we had returned to these campgrounds where our grown children once ran around
in diapers. He was proud of how my sisters and I are caring for Mom. He is at
peace. While I know these words were the product of suggestible imagination, I
heard his voice, felt his spirit close at hand, and warm salty tears joined the
ripples of cool water washing over my feet on the walk back down the beach.
#
I love washing dishes while camping
standing
at a communal sink
in
the sun-splashed shade of the double trunk ironwood
as
blue sky and white clouds fly overhead
moving
through a slow rhythmic ritual
of
washing, rinsing, stacking
and
carrying the white bin of clean wet dishes
to
dry on a worn wooden picnic table
in
the morning sun
ready
for the next collective feast
or
another lazy snack-filled summer day.
#
