The first tentative foray
of a not-too-long walk
puts us on an elevated path

above Pacific waves smashing
rocks into sand. We both
get easily winded,

especially coming up steep
stairs that lead to and from
the tiny cove mostly hidden

(as its name testifies)
unless you know it’s there.
We know it’s there,

the little beach made up
of a kabillion sea-washed rocks,
most so small and smooth

they roll like pearls in
the hand, cushion my tush
for some idle contemplation

of wave formation. It took
all day for the sun to shove
aside the foggy curtain,

but now, late afternoon,
the sky and sea paired in
complementary shades

of blue, the messy waves
curling their backs like
annoyed cats before

mashing themselves back
into ocean. I sit and watch
on what feels for now

like my beach, sending
gratitude into the surf, the sky,
the kabillions of stars

from whence we all come
and will one day return,
for bringing me through again,

for bringing me here again,
for all the agains to come
and for those

in the ever and the after.
Amene.