Dry Grass at the Beach
Dry grass at the beach house
Beneath rainless clouds,
Thirsting next to eternal acres of sea,
The drought remains, piteous, aloof.
The fog’s damp mist wet insufficient
To reach down, nourish, resurrect
Dead roots and parched strands
Of sun burned grass.
The retired captain peered outward
At an ocean of wavering memories.
He watched their white caps peak, glance, roll under,
Returning to their watery depths forever.
Gone now, those Wet years of Plenty,
A Frolic of time expended freely,
The Loud discordant Songs,
The Drinks, The Dances, The One Regret.
The Captain cupped his callused hands,
Against the warm wind, lit his cigarette,
Deeply inhaled, swallowed really,
The cancer didn’t matter now anyway.
He dropped the smoldering match
On the dry grass.
And ground the final ember to death
Under his boot.
There would be no more tears.
She was right not to wait for the rain.
It won’t return.