It is a quiet clapping

no waves



the beach is perfect

the way she combed it



her writing stick

aimed

ready

to commando

words





across the sand



every ripple on the water

she has named



every shell silver dollar

every palm frond fallen


she can even time the breezes

if she wants to.



there are only 11 seagulls

she has their potato chips

there is plenty enough

for every beak

there are no

humiliating

squabbles

to have to

listen to.




clouds with colors

a sistine ceiling

all is


as always




in

perfect

lovely

order



design by



the rhythmic quiet

lapping along her

private beach

where she controls

all audio


but suddenly now





there


some full sail clipper

attempting anchor just


yonder




there...


(harumph)


she clicks

her tongue

with stink eye

and the yen



(harumph!)



where are the

words in the sand

today?




she stands with her stick

and in vain tries to recall

the poignant message

she had dreamt and

rose to scrawl

for this day


it was brilliant!

it was good now

what was it?





her winged familiar

flies above humming



at it's side

a giant dragonfly



a discerning eye


and love looks

like illusion





and if only

the distant rumbling


were tsunami

to save her



if only the reef would

rise like great barrier



sharks circling 'round

methane bubbles



fire corral

mines


portuguese

man o' war





she wants everything

but remembers

this is now

this is after

and

she wants




not that hunger

not that intrusion

nor that dragonfly



with it's bright

peacock wings

peacock wisdom


not much more





which is nothing

which is everything



a fly nonetheless

beautiful or no.





disgruntled




holding

a rusted key ready to toss

it into the newly agitated surf

the lock now missing

just gone



just gone







in love sadness

takes inventory



of everything that

might be moved or



must be buried

pre reminincing



of when her island

was pristine and






void of any

brightly


winged

illusion






when writing

in the sand


once came

so easily





~ yvonne de la vega