no golden skies, no pristine
sands, no temples to the sun, no Surfin' USA. No,
here the brown-tinged waves break low and prostrate
rubbing smooth the rocks
delivering crystaline offerings: Shells, crabs,
clams in heady tumbles
of bubble and foam to the wood
grown up, worn down at odd angles
faceless totems of the winter beach, steady
against the icy wind, the roaring whispers of
falling crests.
Each word was once unique;
Each droplet a final dancing gasp yet
these waves, one for another
again, again, again
Again a comfort in their sameness
in their patient call to the winter sky
belying the frenzy
with which the sky may answer.
Wild and awesome, whipping
the ocean into a flying wall,
the soft foam into granite or concrete
crashing on earth like crazed worshipers
lost in violent abandon. Yet,
These sands slip rhythmically, aimlessly
from shore to shore the picture does not
change, the rushing waves
grovel forward and kow-tow back
The gifts appear
The faceless totems stand quiet
watching, waiting, still.
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All text and images copyright ©1988–2004, by Joel Deitch & Corey-Jan Albert.
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