Ellen

Zuma reminds me of the Irish Sea at Blackpool,

its horizon line choppy as a child's scribble.

Waves backspin above the boiling foam,

like eruptions of ideas.

The jogger doesn't see this,

keeps his eyes focused on some

distant destination he may have devised

for his own good.

I am very thankful.  (To whom I'm not sure)

The steel colored clouds open

a keyhole of blue-

all the illumination I am offered.

Often such a scene makes me weep,

but today I plunge into reverie

like whitecaps onto drenched sand.

First thought, "I'm glad to be alive".

No that's not it.

"I'm glad to be here

seeing these monstrous waves

forming underwater dunes."

There is little beach left.

Spontaneous aqueducts channel water

and submerge the walking path.

Debris is left behind.

Is that an elbow,

a breast, an eye?

I think of the lives

washed away at Pt.  Mugu.

Out of my mind and into the real,

I see some driftwood,

bleached clamshells, seaweed pods.

I collect the gifts and carry them home.

Ellen is a student at SMC's Emeritus College