The Promised Land
Wind rustles the seagrass.
A slow drizzle falls.
If you are still, you hear the ocean,
just over the dunes.
It is a strange kind of desert here,
with water over the sandy horizon
it is dry as far as the eye can see,
deadlands of sand and dreams.
And yet it is here you come,
craving the emptiness,
a place to empty yourself.
Here, it is simple. Wind. Sand. Sun
on the best of days,
clouds on the others.
You come in the offseason
on purpose, grateful that you are old enough
the constriction of seasons no longer matter,
grateful for the love that taught you
you make your own seasons,
grateful for the woman who understands
and sends you on your way,
knowing it is the surest way to keep you close.
For you will return to her in a few short days
of healing, for this is the place miracles occur
and dead men rise again,
where compasses again find true north,
here in the desert,
you are like Moses, without the curse,
ready again to enter the promised land.
About this poem.
I am about to take a couple days away to Cape Cod.
People sometimes ask me if I really do nothing when I go there. I really do. Not for me the crowd strewn beaches or the touristy towns. I walk. I sit on the shore. For hours sometimes. I don’t read. I don’t go wading. Most people would find my little retreats terribly boring.
No matter. They are my emptying out place, and after this past year, I need emptying out. And for me at least. This is how. A multiday meditation, with a soundtrack of ocean waves.