Last day at the beach

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Last Day at the Beach

Lounging on the sound of the surf.   Gazing over sand encrusted toes at longue chairs floating on a sea of bone-white silica and then the rolling aqua sea beyond…

Knowing that when the beads of water upon my legs disappear it will be time to leave, to walk away from this home always open, this bosom always breathing, beckoning, and ready to embrace, and feeling the lingering salt clinging to me like a child who, knowing she owns me, never completely lets go.

What is most days cloying, as I climb back onto the solid bone and gravity of dry land and adulthood, and which compels me to shower as pores gasp for air, today is a sweet and crispy comfort, muscles flexing taut skin in the breeze.

Ten Drops Left.

The boats nod acknowledgement, masts wave a demure farewell, Frothy liquid lace licks the sand, and the sun beams a little harder to tempt me back into the sea.   The attendants plant their daily orchard of yellow umbrellas: a ballet of pinwheels tilting at the sun, fluttering Mikado trills.

Seven drops now.

I gaze upon the juiciest one, knowing it will be the last one left… Lamenting not… I can only taste a prayer of praise on my tingling tongue. This tongue that speaks more of life in that soundless tingle than in all the words it may form as I walk anew in the landlocked world, among my mind-locked brethren who quiz me about my sojourn in paradise.

Three drops left.

Paradise is inside, though. I carry it with me. Everyday is a dream. Adam went to sleep and has not wakened. And as he sleeps we are all still in paradise. And as we dream with him, we paint a world of endless color and texture. I savor this one before the palate dries and I turn the page.

One Drop Left…

…In no hurry to join the air, just like me, in no hurry to join the airborne citizens of the world with nine hours to come in a metal cylinder, in which the only potable water is trapped in a still smaller one. All is white now: the sky, the sand, the salt… even my skin, in comparison to the beautiful brown brothers who get to stay here, beyond the life of this droplet, to arrange the furniture and plant new rows of parasols and flash again their smiles of bright ivory, which purify my heart.   The drying sand is dropping off my toes now, and yet the last droplet holds. In it the sum of my six days at the sea.

July 17, 2015
St. Martin

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One thought on “Last day at the beach

  1. St.Martin! Lucky you! I’m so happy for you. It must have been a wonderful change of pace for you. Good poem, too. Thank you.

    Love, Annelou

    On Sat, Jul 18, 2015 at 10:45 AM, taodaughter wrote:

    > Sabertruth posted: ” Last Day at the Beach Lounging on the sound of > the surf. Gazing over sand encrusted toes at longue chairs floating on a > sea of bone-white silica and then the rolling aqua sea beyond… Knowing that > when the beads”

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