It is a quiet clapping
no waves

the beach is perfect
the way she combed it

her writing stick
aimed
ready
to commando
words

across the sand

every ripple on the water
she has named

every shell silver dollar
every palm frond fallen

she can even time the breezes
if she wants to.

there are only 11 seagulls
she has their potato chips
there is plenty enough
for every beak
there are no
humiliating
squabbles
to have to
listen to.

clouds with colors
a sistine ceiling
all is as always in

perfect
lovely
order

designed
by the rhythmic quiet
lapping along her private beach
where she controls all
audio

but suddenly now
there
some full sail clipper
attempting anchor just
yonder

and she clicks
her tongue
with stink eye
and the yen

where are the
words in the sand
today?

she stands with her stick
and in vain tries to recall
the poignant message
she had dreamt and
rose to scrawl
for this day

it was brilliant!
it was good now
what was it?

her winged familiar
flies above humming
at it’s side
a giant dragonfly
a discerning eye
and love looks
like illusion

and if only
the distant rumbling
were tsunami
to save her

if only the reef would
rise like great barrier
sharks circling ’round
methane bubbles
fire corral
mines
portuguese
man o’ war

she wants everything
but remembers this and wants
not that hunger
not that intrusion
nor that dragonfly
with it’s bright peacock
wings and wisdom
nothing more than that

which is nothing
which is everything
a fly nonetheless
beautiful or no.

disgruntled
she holds a rusted key ready
to toss it into the newly agitated surf
the lock now missing
just gone
just gone

in love sadness
takes inventory
of everything that
might be moved or
must be buried
pre reminiscing

of when her island

was pristine and
void of any

brightly
winged
illusion
when writing in
the sand once
came so easily

-yvonne de la vega

© 2011