Brimstone Lark

When I sit down to write

And pick up a pen

I find no seeds of poetry in me

Nothing to water or tend

Grasping at silvery thoughts

Fumbling with old phrases

But no inspiration is found

In clever combinations

But when meeting my exhaustion at dawn

I spy tendrils of bleached tangles between

Sandy skin and neck

I curl your hair in my fingers like a prayer charm

And when I wade from the sand into the waves

Until it’s deep enough to sit

I place my body into that crackling turmoil

And become a piece of the coast’s timeless love affair