who sits in the first chair
made of sand and driftwood
alive to the pause,
listening to his flesh grow old cell by cell
someone whose life had become a variation
of a quiet articulate theme
mocking the chorus of birds
that heralds the first note of dawn
someone who listens for his name
to play off the distant clouds
and drift over the sea towards home.
what I inherited
was a gathering of shells
and stones along the shore,
a measure of the height of waves
and a yearning for the undertow.
the journey from the cold black center of the sea
had ended on the curve of sky
where wave and earth collided
with the sound of a handshake
and in the eyes of a boy
the waving good-bye
from the rear of a caboose.