It was for the light as much as anything.
It was for the breakers, the dolphins arcing
like joy out beyond them, for the surge,
the long slow swell, the thundering collapse.
For the open sky and the laughing gulls.
For the wide beach, empty footprints
coming and going. For the salt air
and the southward singing, the sting
of sand whipping my legs, how the sun
warmed my wearied shoulders. For the
deep breath and the cleansing release.
How the swash rushed cool over my feet.
Then my heels sinking, shore heaving back to sea,
the momentary disorientation. For the boardwalk,
the dressed-out shops: red-hot reds and bubblegum
pinks, palm-tree greens and popsicle oranges,
all their perfect tawdry exuberance. Then
the slow walk back through the loblolly forest,
for the respite of that canopied cathedral
opening to the sun-sparkled salt marsh,
the afternoon stretching out before the turn.
For the egret stalking and the scuttling crabs.
For the scudding clouds and the sun’s languid
slip into the riffling tide, the ebb and flow,
and inconstancy, its own comfort, its own
murmuring refrain. It was for the wonder,
all the wild infinite harmony, for remembering
my place in it. It was for the reminder.
This poem first appeared in Blue Heron Review (2023).
—
Joyce Ritchie grew up in Midwest farmland and now lives in the coastal Mid-Atlantic; place infuses her poems. A lifelong reader, classical musician and career fundraiser, words and music are a through-line of her life. These days, she’s happiest wandering outdoors, a plein air poet, rediscovering her love of words and music—wordmusic. Publications include Blue Heron Review, Canary, Passager, Persimmon Tree, Sunlight Press (Pushcart nomination), and three chapbooks in collaboration with plein air painters.
