NaPoWriMo Day
Twenty-FiveThe first crushing wave of high tide
carries life and death as though they
weigh nothing at all, delivering each
promptly and with all the horrible force
of a hundred thousand iron hammers.
But to what ends are these elbows bent?
Brass tacks or steel nails? You'd think
the choice of fastener would make more
of a difference, but once you butt
the two ends of an argument together,
you'll notice a magnetic kind of separation,
like the edges of a canyon slowly drifting
apart, the rivers of miscommunication
whittling the rock down into fine sand.
They'll press on, attempt to build a bridge,
but a very specific kind of engineer
must be on hand to certify its construction.
None of them have used a phone book
in ages - who among us has - and so
little progress is made. No permits are
cleared, no beams are transported,
most of the wood is eaten by various
campfires build to simulate an intimate
kind of warmth - like in those closing
hours when they might both realize
how far awry the lines have shifted,
how much beach has been dragged
back out to sea, grain by grain by grain.
And then the moon raises its anchor
and the tide crawls back out, lifting and
rolling what it carries, out to the dark
pressure of oblivion. It will take much
away, but also leave something behind.
Something small, something growing,
something that has been waiting just
for this moment, when it can be most alive.
