Today I will memorize
clouds—feathery and soft as a vision—
great white herons, their wings wide-spread,
delicate silk plumes erect in the wind,

and the woman coming toward me along the shore.
We do-si-do so well it makes us stop and laugh.
Her German accent punctuates the air.
It's that kind of day she says, a dancing in the sun day.

A man swims in the still cold water of February;
a fishing boat drifts without lines.

Umbrellas in full sun or shade, scallop the beach.
I sit in my chair. You, in yours.
We watch the afternoon turn, weather made for cinema.

Water rasps over stone walls, spindrift spumes
from the surface of the sea.
We discover the pause, hover, and break of waves.

When the sun begins its slow descent
and we are full of moments and full of space,
we gather our belongings, turn for one more look
at the sea's vast expanse, distilled now—into light.

© by Mary Jo Balistreri.
Used with the author's permission.