The mist that slips away
like the skin of an overripe peach
as the sun reaches
over the ridge
and lays hold of the beach;
the laboring cry of the gulls
pumping daylight up from the sea;
each footstep filled with luminous water, leaving behind
a wandering trail of notes on the staff lines of the tide.
2 comments:
For Oliver Sacks, who left us today.
Beautiful.
Post a Comment