eliason harbor in late august, a few days past year’s last minus tide

mourning on a dock.
next to piling, low
tide, taking. still
i stood, still.

next to barnacles
and sea stars.
next to muscles,
closed tight
in their indigo strength.

a piling,
a wooden
dock made of
overlapping crosses,
a tide taking
from us
our mourning.

and it was morning
on a dock,
i had grown
so tall overnight.
now towering,
i towered over

long ago, or
maybe only
moments before,
barnacles and
sea stars,
withered in their waiting,
returned to ripened,
in an incoming sea.

no longer did they
hold tightly to
their tiny ocean.
outside, a sun,
maybe just a bird,
keen on tearing
at their softness.

in morning,
bathed from above
in filtered mourning,
muscles open to blue.

on a dock,
next to a piling,
i shrink and again
stretch tall. still,
all while standing

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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