Earthen Vessel
The port is still. The rain lays down
the restless remains of ship-wakes.
Not a thick rain; vague, like the dust
from grade-school chalkboards.
I run from east to west along Jericho Beach
toward the Pacific, which I’ve never seen.
Not really.
The clouds unfurl, sweeping across the masts –
the harbor is a shadowbox. The bow lights
shimmer in halos through the rain
and reflect from cloud-bottom to sea
and back again. Our shadowbox world
is small.
May we find peace in the periphery.
Perhaps we have looked up too often.
Perhaps the clouds teach us aspirations
more befitting to our human nature
than flight. If we are dust after all, how can we
return once we’ve left the dust behind?
We are nothing!
We are nothing
if not married to the ground.
A couple stands on the beach, pointing
to the prows anchored to the seabed,
content to keep their feet dry.
pilgrim 