North of Here

I often find myself standing at the watery gates of the Pacific.  Looking out into something I don't quite understand, yet seemingly know well.  There's a feeling of home somewhere in it, beyond it . . . a sense of familiarity.  Time and time again, I drop fragments of myself into this oceanic abyss, this chasm between two worlds: one that is visible, but where I feel out of place; and one that is unseen, for which my soul yearns longingly.

Surely this ocean is a poet; how it moves, how it crashes, how it carries and drowns all the same.  It's a symphony of life's moments, a composition of its minor and major occurrences.  Its wind, always haunting, leaves behind a trail of whispers.  Humming fine tunes, spitting out wild notes.  And in the tumult of waves rising and breaking against the rocky bodies reminiscent of stately gatekeepers, I lean into the cold.  The salt on its breath wraps me in a cocoon as I rest my gaze somewhere north, somewhere west, somewhere past the present . . . somewhere over there.

(Muir Beach, 27 February 2016)