Molera. 6:15 pm, high cirrus and fitful breeze. By Ivy Jayne

Strange gulls cry low and mournful
The sound your heart would make
Given a voice.

(I did come to the beach
with my ego intact;
but witnessing this sunset
you can only speak
from outside yourself.)

The tide is coming in
and you can smell it with your skin.
Here:
A place permitting no evasions.

You know there are no reasons for things like this.
The season comes–
Wind through the redwoods–
Branches fall
Contours change
Where leaves lie over last year’s softly buried remains.

But you still make the attempt.
Explanation:
He’s not prone to emotional excess
He doesn’t have a cause to die for
He can’t feel his feet
Or want to lose himself anymore in a life
of places with unpronounceable names
exotic local religion
mysterious women
and better drugs–

Well, no. and it isn’t the weight, either
the workload
the distance to here
none of these absurdities, these essentials;
It’s not caprice
And it’s not because sometimes
you just want to be on the side
that’s winning.

No, it’s the desire
(of course it’s desire)
To go home with something burning inside you
Like sunset clouds
Like saltspray in your eyes
Like strange wine
And it’s knowing that you didn’t say no–

Not then and not once before–

The difference between thirsting in the desert
and being swept out to sea.

–October 2006 (with apologies to Bob Dylan and Harlan Ellison)

to view more of Ivy's meditations & thoughts go to ivyjayne.wordpress.com