Life from a Dock

A morning he sat on the edge of the dock,

looking over softly disturbed water,

and wondered if in another strand

this is that ancient river.

was he waiting for a ferry?

One stop on a damnable itinerary

kept hidden and close to the vest,

to be known only as a dot on a far wave's crest.

Would this spot soon contain remnants

of a forgotten civility, millennia henceforth?

Rubble gathered, sorted, and layered upon lives,

burying evidence, love, and proof of his soul’s course.

Would another come later to rearrange it all?

Unaware of his giving and the secrets he'd taken,

like his childhood movements from place to place,

scattered hurt pieces in a tornado's wake.

Eventually finding a niche and planting roots,

pulling weeds and tipping roses,

fertile soil and a gravid ground,

rows dug straight, more than a few seeds wasted.

Another day now turned, this harvest done,

he stands from the dock and vows a return.

The Sun God makes retreat and the last tide swells;

final portrait painted, one last sweet, briny smell.