While inland nesters roast on a spit,
we sooth our brows in thin silver
mist like a dreamy photo’s vignette.
I tell my host I want to dip
my skin in the Atlantic.
Beyond the boardwalk’s failing arm,
our feet mine silt beneath grains,
deeper with each passing ocean tress.
I boast to her how the chilling waves
on my ankles are a fun kind of pain.
Retreating toward grass, our toes receive
the mild vengeance of seashell fragments—
raw love like a cat’s sandpaper tongue.
As the noon rays seep through clouds
sliding seaward, she warms into a smile.
Curling around migratory fowl, space-time
works up a good day’s sweat. Oily foam
trembles in the breeze, discarded by the tide.
Luna’s purifying month traces the backs
of our necks, with well-rested fingertips.
Poet’s Note:
Image of Bethune Beach in New Smyrna Beach, Florida, by Jake Christensen
Beautiful. I always enjoy your poetry. Keep it coming. I never comment. .
Except to harp.
Late March in Florida is not winter. It is late spring to early summer.
Already the bugs are out in excess. Boy scouts get severe sunburns and have no (proper) use for sleeping bags.
Dehydration is a threat.
(Personal observation last week end).
This poem vividly and poignantly describes many fond memories of January visits to a Florida beach,
Hi Mike. Happy to find the poem resonates with your memories of Florida beaches. In my defense, the poem actually depicts a day in late February, not March. But I intentionally left that vague, so your point is taken and appreciated. Also, your vivid descriptions of current conditions underscore what my Floridian host said more than once during my visit, which I’m taking to heart: in addition to culture and history, in terms of weather, climate, and geography, Florida is a fascinating place. Thanks for reading!