Keep the tides
contained, sweep
sand the wind brings,
sandbag the garage,
any low opening—
let no ocean
flood our asphalt lane.

This surge
threatens piers, pilings,
pulls lost nets
and sea wrack
from the depths,
a monolith
unearthed overnight—
already everlasting
in the songs
our children chant.

Snowmelt seep
from granite peaks
into granite cavities—
interior reservoirs fill,
snowmelt seek release.

Circle of sand
newly damp—
an upsurge
from within,
a wellspring
in palmfuls
pure enough
to cup.

Scree fine
as wet flour,
roil in your shallow start—
even a pool
can gently
jump the trail
and flow
flush to the ice-cut edge.

The downy rain
so fine
it powders round
too mild to fall
renews the patio
most days
so dull
but now wet-gray, satin
as a young
elephant seal
in from the undertow.

Weave me a spell
I can pull over my head
when daylight
through the curtains
hurts the hollows
behind my eyes—
a heavy spell,
a force field
I can feel—
I need to feel more
invisible somehow
less dimensional—
not missed
or even noticed
gone asleep.