Ode to Nostalgia

This rising mist, not dim, but light,

I bathe in Her more often

now that the Future (in her mask)

is running away

wobbling on bad feet.

This rising, mist, not dim, but light—warm,

every time She arrives this way

wrapping shining arms

around my shoulders

a feeling of light with different names

for the Past.  Story of a Day

when oyster middens

piled deep in their own memories,

still prodded our air with their past living

where we crunched along

finding every missing pearl

perfectly radiant as a touch.

How we hoped to hoard this day

the best of them in our pockets.

How many of these days were there?

Uncountable sea coves

where we sifted pebbles, shoosh, shoosh,

for agates, ambergris, smooth spheres

 while whales played out there

in their element, sea,

and where the hard wind sanded

our skin raw and made our sandwiches

crackle on our teeth.

                —-Ah, there I went again into Her shining arms

circling my shoulders

haloing me like Mothers

and again, instead, I go into

Her rising mist, not dim, but light,

a cloud, brighter than Now because the Future,

her hair streaming behind her,

runs away on wobbly feet

around a scorched bend and out of sight.