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ST. CRUZ

Sing a song of sixpence; sing a song of love.
Not that I can sing. Let the wind
Carry the song for us.

It cannot be stressed too deeply
how deeply it cannot be stressed.
Think: knowing the sea
is not the same as loving it. Wind
is a sound as much as a feeling. That knowledge cannot be approximated.

The good things, mostly, are serendipitous. The mist
that rolls in from the sea
back-lights the hillsides. The coffee

is better because of the hangover, not vice versa.
The beach is not really there until you walk on it.
Sometimes the wind is better without the words it might carry away.
And this is another poem that will never see the light of day
Because it was just you and me on the beach that morning.

There were no Gods to hear
the Huzzahs and Amens we tossed heaven-and- earthward, and the manna came at us
from all directions. We prayed
with reason that passeth understanding,
passeth understanding, O, world without end, without end.
With hearts bursting forth we joined our voices
to the cry of the gull and the albatross
giving thanks to St. Cruz for this magic thing
that cannot be explained
to anyone or everyone.

They will have to go stand on the beach themselves.

And we can only stand aside and nod as they pass,
and pray to St. Cruz that we might see in their eyes that light
that says they understand:
War and ruination are not our business. Death and pestilence
will have to wait. Guilt and angst and wrath
cannot stand up to the sea-wind,
and will scatter beyond the bluffs
that overlook the sea
at St. Cruz.

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