On This Shore

Listen.

It is by this

shore

that the loon

whistles.

It is from this

shore

that the ball

floated

away,

and the child

followed.

It is above this

shore

that the balloon

drifted:

Oh, that colorful, joyous

flight of the aeronauts,

waving from the basket,

to then sink

miles off shore

and out of sight

on a night

when the sky was starless

and the equally starless sea

opened its arms

as if to forgive

everything.

Human sacrifice

is

old-fashioned.

We feel no need

to appease

the elements.

But the sea accepts

each offering

like old folks

who open their arms

to that prodigal

child. Disasters

are blamed on

the stars.

And we who walk

on this shore

are not more

aware

than any other couple

who happens to stop,

pick up a shell,

a polished piece

of glass,

a ball

and to point out

the loon, disappearing

in the deep

to reappear

again,

and again.