Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Losing Grip

Easy breeze on palm trees,
fronds open up, to a purple sky,
reaching for alms,
and my claim on a conch shell,
staked earlier
between my fingers and thumb,
vanishes with the sea foam,
while I settle on a stone seat
topping the promontory.

I've lost my grip and feel jinxed,
but the ocean’s chorus
sings in one eccentric tongue, twisting
with tunes of mystery,
empty shells’ tales, and perforated reveries.
In awe, I press my hand to my lips
and still my breath,
to hear a wave rise high and whisper,
“If it is lost, it can't be found,
and you’re too old to live a lie.”