MORNING LETTER TO THE ATLANTIC
BY COLLEEN WEBSTER
Yesterday's sting rays have ceased flipping
and breaching in your breaker zone,
silvery white mullets are not jumping.
Ghost crabs have sideways scuttled
off into their sandy chutes and
even the lizards slink in shadow.
A lone osprey pierces your salty mumble
as you unfurl your watery blanket
across these miles of flat sand.
What does it matter, all these people
who tramp and stroll, sifting
away time on your edges?
Only you know the steady roll
of going on, undertowing, unwinding
all the divinities of your depths
while we, poor creatures, stutter,
misstep, push, fall and try to regain
a balance we left in the womb.