thepacificfromthehills.jpg

This dusk the low sun reveals no harmonies, until
It forms that certain final cord of light, marred
By nothing; that sound unto itself and bright;

So that when we draw nearer to its humming, up
The prairie over the hill, and there is
Artichoke wilting as always at the field’s heart,

Sea winds and the swell of oceans going
As though to the last sound through the rising dark
Of the coastal cold, our minds can only shake

Like strings against its tightening wire, and
Its thinness flashing before us swiftly strokes
Within us a variant shade, in whose shadow

We understand this color ending the dusk
With the ocean sternness looming there, large and dull;
So that even in our limbs now drawing near

From having walked intently and from so far
It will be the dissonance and weight of the ocean
That we will feel deeper than any moment’s light.