07 February 2020
in its fullness, to be higher than the battered sand. Higher than my own eyes.
I know this cannot be true. I'd be submerged, but I feel the trembling possibility
with each tremendous wave, clapping upon itself, sliding up the shore with a hiss.
Between the gray sky and gray sea, the sand glows gold.
It was a day like that with trembling sorrow more delicious than despair.
Colors jump sharp and the wind dances across skin in small salty steps.
A day when bad news would not surprise. Not bad news of commerce or politic, but
news of loss. A death day crisp and bitter as a wild apple.
My son calls -- angry and confused. This is the heartbreak I conceived in him and foresaw
as clear and bright as battered sand. He's been up for days -- madness? spirit walk? amphetamine?
He has fragments and much disconnect to say, in essence: What have you done to me?
How have you made me so? My tears crest and provide that wide angle lens
through time and its tides. Yes, so clear to me, this has happened before.
I see my decades of man's work. I want to wield the golden bough to tell him
Kill your idols, kill you kings. I want to hand him the sharpest blade -- sharp as light --
and my own bent neck, thankful, it is a tear crested day. That tool is double sharp
and we are fleshy beings served by myth but not myth ourselves. I am sorry I say to him.
I know I often failed. I am sorry, but please know how much I did try.