and with each
a mist of orange
spreads across the bay.
Where rock and sky and water meet
my eyes tear
with the loss
of something to hold on to,
as if all has become the wind
curling my hair
and keeping me warm
with the hope that something lies beyond.
Sinking quickly like an evening sun
my tongue tastes the harsh salt
stained with the sweat of the sea
puckered by the lips of Poseidon.
Under sail, the edge of the horizon
meets fast with the wind.
The meeting place
becomes the self centered soul.
I reach up to hold the sun
and grasp nothing,
nothing but the air,
nothing but the wind
tempting me with the salt of the sea.
Copyright 2002 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.