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.