Ten and a Half Foot Tides

 

 

It must be quite exciting.

So many tourists checking your schedule,

time you rise, time you fall;

following your agenda,

down Bridge street, Bar Harbor,

by way of the trail

in the middle of the ocean to Bar Island,

like Moses took Israelites through the Red Sea.

 

Time and again, you hold onto your principle.

Such a vigorous ritual.

How did you find time to sleep and wake in time?

Wrapping up your prayers in Matins

as you come to change the world,

washing away all the footprints of yesterday,

layer by layer,

like adding blanket in the cold night,

like a councilor,

one conferring, one sheet,

synchronizing every part of you,

lifting all tides to reach the same height as before,

deep enough to cover up whatever happened

in the prior act.

Like a staging director

manages to change each setup;

young, old, babies, strollers,

very old, wheelchairs,

shoes, no shoes, sandals, flip-flops…​

swamped in the summer heat;

in the cold snowy winter,

no one comes.

 

No matter,

you are always ready for the next act;

nap before Vespers,

summon Moses to come

move the ocean aside,

exposing the trail to Bar Island.

 

Every time I am tired and exhausted,

I love to dream…

sitting on the rock of that tiny terrace,

in between town and trail,

overlooking all the work

you had to pull off,

day in day out.

Act or no act,

once again

I’m prepared to unearth

the magic of my daily humdrum.

Out of dream, I’ll dance.