Alone on a porch fifteen feet from the ocean.
the porch connected to a small cabin,
the small cabin on an island
in an ocean bay.
Across the bay, a few hundred yards to opposite shore,
a ripple of muscled mountains heave
in rolling devotion to sky’s infinite sigh.
This is a land of glacier and volcano,
raw materials for a planet in labor.
You are on a porch and think yourself alone.
Do you not feel the wind,
taste the brine of sea on it?
Do you not feel yourself wildly companioned?
There is a volcano behind you, the bay a remnant of glacier.
You sit solitarily yet suffused
with your quietly inclusive community.
The tide is coming in, the wind is all around you.
This is not a poem but rather manual labor.
You are not alone but rather raw material.
With the startling newness
of every impossible moment,
you ceaselessly become.