Lost Languages

You sit in the winter sun, almost warm.
The sand fence casts shadows behind you.
In front, the sea is nearly still,
the waves anemic, gentle and soft.

You revel in the silence.
Wallow in it.
You let it leach the poison from your soul
and feel it dissipate. You recover

the language of joy,
that lost language, reclaimed only
here, and in the arms of your lover,
just enough lightness to live

despite the slings and arrows,
the poisons and storms,
God’s soft armor surrounding you strongest here,
in the midst of nothingness.

About this poem

Readers and friends know that the ocean and other lonely places are where I restore my soul. I did not discover that about myself until I was sixty and first visited Cape Cod. How strong is the Cape’s power to heal? Sometimes, just writing about it brings me peace.

Tom