All the rivers run into the sea.
Tributaries, estuaries where fresh meets salt water.
Rivers are always changing, but the cycle
is invariable; all returns to the headwaters.
Man. Water. There is no new thing.
Palmiet River (South Africa.) enter the Atlantic Ocean
“There is no new thing” – Ecclesiastes 1:7
A heat wave week cresting and breaking
here so far away from an ocean
that would feel so cooling and yet
is warming every day and every year.
I feel mid-year changes within and without.
Before we existed, the ocean whispered unheard.
Oscillations of air and water, weather moving
noisily above, silence below, we living between,
surrounded by our own sounds. And after
we leave, the ocean continues to whisper.
Heavy the oar to him who’s tired,
lightened by the sunset over the harbor.
Heavy is the saltwatered, rain-watered oilcloth coat,
drying beside the sleeping sailor and fireplace.
Morning’s red sky and heavy the sea.
Heavy the Oar to Him Who is Tired, Heavy the Coat, Heavy the Sea, 1929 by Ivan Albright, American, 1897-1983, oil on canvas
to the land for the vast sea.
These days, people interest me not much.
The waves, always different, always the same.
The crashing drowns laughing voices behind me.
Feeling the tidal pull of deep water.