Ventura in November
Who wouldn't tilt their chin toward the spectacular light of a
California morning? Who could resist the muted heat rising
from the pier, the delicate rim of salt in the air, the sight of boys,
minus their bravado, standing quietly hopeful at their fishing lines?
For a brief and blissful moment, my memory's turned amnesiac;
I can't fathom the half-naked trees that line my streets at home, evidence
of winter's first bruises. I'm not thinking about how quickly it could all disappear,
and does. Instead, I am happily ignorant of every ebb and flow life marries us into
the second we're born, and I am standing on these weather-beaten planks,
wind too faint to hear, the horizon like a lover I will never quite meet.