[168 words]
Bridal veils of surf unfurl
with the cadence
of weddings in June —
muted voices, laughter
woven through the rumbling
of the waves.
A tide beneath
pulls and gently licks the sand;
a layer of deep grey-blue
delineates horizon:
this the sea, this the sky.
Distant rain diffuses the mountains —
thick brushstrokes
where colors bleed,
blue-grey, blend and soften
the edges like wind does
over centuries.
The smell of salt and foam,
the onramp of summer,
a longing to hold today —
to caress it like one does driftwood,
to wane slowly,
making it last.
But the countdown toward concrete
has begun.
A dull ache grabs my chest
and throat —
this the ocean, that the cemetery.
You cannot package any of this
any better than you can package
a lived life.
But the regrets come along,
they are loading already, heavy —
and the disappointment
for not having the audacity
to remain here,
plant the flag,
throw the anchor,
unload the heart,
lodge myself in the sand,
and be done drifting.
Dolo Diaz is a poet with roots in Spain, currently residing in California. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in ONE ART, Rogue Agent, Right Hand Pointing, Star*Line, Humana Obscura, and Book of Matches, among others. She also has a debut chapbook, Defiant Devotion, which was published by Bottlecap Press.
