Bonus

Don't you love

the feeling you get

on a Sunday night

when you remember

that Monday is a day off?

One Perfect Hour

After the morning's work

and before taking my son to a doctor's appointment

was one perfect hour

in which I rushed to the beach

hurry, hurry

parked on Thalia Street

and ran across Pacific Coast Highway

water-logged longboard under my arm.

I pulled on my wetsuit

quick, quick

pausing to take note

of a new hole under the left arm, darnit

and paddled out.

The water was still January-chilly

but the warm sun made up for it

and I caught wave after glassy little wave

and watched the pelicans dive

and said

thank you, thank you

when I saw

a pod of dolphins swim by.

Red Sky, Wine-Dark Sea

Under a blooming,

red-magenta sunset

on an ordinary Tuesday

the ocean becomes

Homer's wine-dark sea

There's Always Something...

The bougainvillea

is looking good. So what's with

the New Zealand flax?

Have you ever noticed that maintaining a house or a yard (or a kid, for that matter) is a never-ending project akin to painting the Golden Gate Bridge? Leaky roof, sun-damaged floors, backed up drains, unhappy plants (or in the case of the kid: stomach flu, lingering cold, weird Honduras-induced skin condition)--you fix one thing and then some other problem pops up. Occasionally I have to remind myself that there will always be something, and that's just the way it is...and it's ok.

The Painting Lesson, and a Prayer

Two women in hats,
feet solidly planted in the damp grass,
lean toward a canvas
propped against an easel.
One woman dabs intently with a brush,
the other looks out at the ocean,
then makes a staccato gesture--
here, here, and there--
with two fingers,
pointing to an outcropping of rock.
They consider the horizon,
then regard the painting in progress.

There is both lightness and gravity
in the way they work.


God of all
thank you
for the rough loveliness
of nature
and
for whatever it is--
spark, soul, or instinct--
that makes humans
want to make beauty
too.

Surf Check

Surf check at Sammy's:

Clean lines, the swell filling in.

The sun on my back.

Collision

Lost in thoughts of my to-do list

and creeping along in stop-and-go traffic,

I hit my brakes late

and slam into the car in front of me.

I draw in a sharp breath

and motion for the other driver to pull over.

We get out of our cars

and stand by the side of the road,

squinting in the bright sun

as we trade insurance information.

The damage is minor

and no one hurt, but I'm rattled

and apologetic;

he is irritated and insists

on filing a police report.

The officer arrives.

As she writes on her notepad

I look down at the smattering of squashed hotsauce packets

littering the roadside,

prod them with the toe of my boot.

I silently curse my poor timing,

wishing I had taken a different way home

wishing I hadn't looked down.

Wishing it all had been otherwise.

Then I think of Jane Kenyon's poem,

"Otherwise"--

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise

--and remind myself that I have a bad habit

of reading too much cosmic significance

into life's fender-benders:

Is it because I tried to get out of jury duty?

Is God, or the universe, trying to apprehend me

for something I've done

or left undone?

Yes, I could have avoided the accident

but I didn't

and it could have been worse.

I'm walking away from this collision

as is the man in the other car

and it might have been otherwise.

Blue Christmas

It was a December

of golden days

and crisp, sparkling nights.

I saw swooping pelicans

and Orion's belt,

bright blooming aloe

and holiday lights downtown.

Now that the brittle, shedding Christmas tree

is down by the street

and the ornaments have all been put away,

I flip through pictures of beach walks

and parties and presents opened and sunsets.

Most beautiful are the blues--

an azure sky,

the inky ocean

ruffled by an offshore wind,

and

indigo-purple mussels

holding fast to the rocks.