THERE IS YET TIME

 

We stand together in great darkness some distance

apart on the beach to wait for sunrise. First a hint

 

of not-quite night, a mirage perhaps, whisper

of color, blue maybe, maybe. A pastel hush

 

of lavender in a skyward streak that a moment

ago was not there. The sand is hard as a sidewalk.

 

My toes and fingers sting in the eye-watering wind.

Laced ice kisses the shore. An apricot-orange stripe

 

appears as a reward. Being human, we want more:

to cheer, applaud. Instead, slate-gray clouds blur

 

the horizon. Those who’d come for evidence

that, forget yesterday, today is another, return

 

disappointed, to their cars. I get it. And I’m also relieved

when they leave like guests after the party is over.

 

The beach belongs to me and my dog, who wants

her stick thrown again. Fetch, return, the point of life

 

being whatever is happening now—a botched sunrise

on Lake Michigan as a winter storm rolls in. It’s the peril

 

and cringe of exposure, the balm and dread of being alone.

It’s the squirm and scrape and ache of making selfish

 

choices. I cannot be the only one with a voice inside

that says, “I don’t have to,” after I’ve already said I would.

 

I think I believe there is not enough of me to share.

What if I’m wrong?

 

Maybe that is why I am restive as a cloud churning

hot and cold, braced for lightning.