March-morning sitting,
Aging man deliberates –
Do-less state of mind
Seduction, January 21, 2016, 7:00 a.m.
On at least one star-filled morning each month, I can be found elbow-supported, wooden-railing leaning at the end of the Lighthouse Pier where I gaze toward the sand-duned line along the southernmost end of Salt Run. There, by the light of a sun that has yet to crest those sandy ridges, night’s quiet transformation into day occurs so swiftly that my brain can but register its changes as stop motion animation: changes in the sky where yellow intrudes upon dark charcoals, diluting them into steely blues; changes that brighten and polish smooth patches of water so that channel markers and mooring floats might reflect upon their states; and changes that shear night’s veil guarding a secured ketch till the boat’s emerging beauty seduces me once again.
Bridge of Lions, January 24, 2016, 7:29 a.m.
The sun rises to the south in St. Augustine during the winter. On cloudless mornings then, once the sun clears the trees that line the shore on Anastasia Island, it brightens and burnishes the south side of the Bridge of Lions in a manner that brings to my mind the bridge over River Itchen by the gates of the Royal Court of Arthur.
Skiff, January 22, 2016, 7:29 a.m.
Someone has tied up a skiff at the southern end of the marina flood wall. It sits hard aground in the outgoing tide amidst sea grasses and rocks. It has no oar locks, so whoever brought it to shore likely used a small outboard and then took it with him for safe keeping (a two horsepower motor can weigh as little as 30 pounds). There are two to three inches of water in the hull so the boat has been here since at least Tuesday when we last we had a heavy rain. Perhaps it belongs to the captain of one of those half dozen sailboats I see moored to the southeast. I wonder where the captain is now, and I turn west to study the houses and inns that line the quay, as though I might see him hurrying along on his business, as though I might learn in which of my mind’s thousand stories he belongs.
Morning Stoicism
Joni sings Seasons on Pandora while I check old, ever older skin with impassive eyes. (“I’ve always been eighteen inside,” said my mother on her 90th.) Two new sailing wounds: left arm, right ankle, seen but not felt. Worn skin: rough, discolored, scabbed and scarred. Still I do not mourn the passing of my youth!
בְּרִיאָה *
Topping the protective dune, we froze, speechless in wonder to see the birth of the day laid out before us.
*Creation
Note to Self
When you write, write.
When you make love, make love.
When you fish, fish.
Going Home
Sunrise stroll ending
Fresh brewed coffee waiting –
Good-morning being
Manifestus
I will never know the breadth of God,
Nor the height, nor the depth.
Yet, I pause in awe of dawn’s majesty
Some early morning walks by the sea.
Salt Run Adventure Dreaming
On the first star-filled morning of each second month, I hasten to the Lighthouse Pier where I take photos in the rosy-dawn light of sailboats at anchor on Salt Run. There, at each click of my camera’s shutter, I find myself inserted into misty images of daring voyages to distant and mystical lands.
Vilano Images 