(At the Tickle Pink Inn, Carmel Highlands)

I study the sign for some time,
thinking I shoulda learned some
Latin when I had the chance,

but that’s why God invented
the internet, so I look it up.
What on earth could restabit

mean? Ah, will remain. And
fortis means strong. And arare
sounds vaguely Italian, which

would make sense if the root
is Latin, the English major in me
decides. But “to plow” what?

Placeto translates to please.
Restat means remains.
The whole sentence, then:

It will remain strong to plow
if it remains. Whaaa? I think
my mind just boggled.

But as we wander this gardeny
oasis perched in the Carmel
highlands, looking more out

to sea than inward, seeing
the inscription repeated here
and there—especially by

the new hot tub overlooking
the Pacific—the English major
clicks in, reads slowly:

Rest a bit for ’tis
a rare place to rest at.

Forget that old saw about
ending a sentence with a
preposition. I’m a sucker

for wise words even if I
have to puzzle them out.
Here we are in this rare

place, this precious moment,
resting near the end of this
first day of June, sun beaming

through ribbons of fog bank
like sparkling topaz, the gem
of good fortune and love,

we two souls happy by
the sea, together, feeling
wealthy beyond measure.