San Francisco Bay Park, Dusk
For my friends at Saybrook University
Pink clouds camp out along the far shore.
They are the homeless ones, who live here.
Roots of trees ripple the path, trunks roiled
at the base, as if with great cancer. They lift
their thin arms overhead, and survive.
Egrets bury their bony beaks in wet sand.
Gulls prance near the water line, tracing
the squiggles and bends. They have grown
used to the rolling thunder of planes,
which slide through the clouds like pages
of a fairy tale, turning in the leaf-light
breeze. Here and there, planted markers
denote public shore, reminding us
each one is free to be here, each
free to travel to a new world. Inside
a grand hotel, rafts of students gather
to begin their journey, protected,
for now, from uncertain winds.
They are flying visions, faint as first
stars. They are massaging dreams
in rooms where teachers listen, pause,
laugh, and cry, circling the heart’s compass.
When they touch their fingers together
like the partnered bridge of Virginia Reel
memories swell -- the seventh wave,
sudden, full. Now they are breakdancing
twists and turns of the mind. Already,
visions are dressing themselves
in clay or silk, blue feathers, or beads.
This is a place of launch. Few here
call this city home. We have dropped
our moorings, let the waves be guides.
We have come from the everglades,
from long winters in Kansas, the fog
of Seattle lights, the high desert
where Coyote howls at the moon.
We have come knowing there is no
return, only the moment
when the curled bark of an old
madrone peels itself loose
and the tree and the seeker are one.
This poem was originally published in Forage.