No Hurry to Leave

It is dark on the shore this morning.
Low clouds block the sun.
Fog hides the horizon.
The waves are black and angry. And yet

you are in no hurry to leave. Perhaps
it is age, and the survival of storms past.
You know what it feels like, the deluge
with its wind and cutting raindrops,

with the sand blowing, sharp and cutting.
You know the damage of flotsam flying
and striking, leaving scars.
You have survived it all. A benefit of age,

of a life lived less perfectly than you had hoped,
a deep life lived half-blind, always straining
to see beyond the dark horizon
even as the storm strikes.

And so, you are not brave.
You are not strong.
You simply know you are not alone
Even when you are.

About this poem.

Regular readers know I love the beaches of Cape Cod in the off-season. You know I have lived a lot in my sixty-nine years. You know many of my imperfections, and my love of storms. You may or may not know I have an imagination that sometimes is so strong it feels like real life. From all those things, this poem.

Tom