By Bonnie Maurer
Wave after wave
we leap crashing surf,
let our bodies flap and flail
and swallow the sea—all
but swallowed by the sea—students
to frothing power. At 70, 10 or 21,
we can know our lessons well, tossed
sideways like the moon snail.
You and I sit together, my love, and
watch the ocean. May the percussion
of wind and water never cease. May we
live ten more? (I met a man strolling
on the beach, 90.)
You and I find a horseshoe crab shell
half-buried in the pale sand,
intact, an armored back and tail.
We taste the salt air, hands holding
sunlight, toes squeezing sand, seagulls
standing resolutely at arms. I asked for
nothing but this turning 70. And here,
the Zen cleaning woman, I call her affectionately,
never fails me. I walk with her on this wandering shore,
one footprint at a time she brushes away.