Shore Life
Beyond the shore,
the Gulf is a calm in constant motion.
The waves at my feet don’t do much
but their patterns, their incessance,
cannot be denied.
On a beach of gentle waters,
my footprints stay longer,
are a slalom course around cockle and pebble,
mussel and stringy green weed.
The birds are wary but not fearful.
A skimmer skims. A turnstone overturns stones.
And the poet writes poetry.
Not in the moment,
but as a modest stroll towards some place
where his writing tools await.
First Robin
The first robin has no idea
what it means to me.
Its head is in robin world.
It's on the lookout
for a lawn with a reliable food supply.
It doesn't care
that my mood has lifted
at the sight of its dark wings,
orange breast.
So I've been snowbound all winter.
Big deal, it says.
Of course it doesn't say anything.
It barely knows I exist.
It has no understanding
of cabin fever,
temperature in the single digits,
blizzard conditions,
driveway shoveling,
and a thousand other of my winter woes.
We both have lives to get on with.
What I call Spring,
to the robin is worms.
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