Coast

stumbling back
catching a wall
carefully squeezing between blades
razoring where the sawmill was
human error rife with no mind
truly none

wind lash furrowing river's flow
lying along shore
your hair flecked with sand
magpie hungry down canyon
cresting again the engine blows
no more love

You are, I am
the blades Spanish Inquisition dull
unlike Poe
you and I have money
or we look for God everywhere
and find too many

caning up stairs
legs wobbly ready to buckle
books of more than one life
waiting to be read
wood cut neatly stacked
by the pot-belly stove

Baltimore oriole gone
with red-wing blackbird
blue jay, pileated red bill
salty mist over feet tracking the tide
delighted to hear seagulls
back far west

(16 February 2013)

copyright 2013 by Floyce Alexander