What I Call Erosion

Today’s sea seems tired of stealing
acres of sand from the beach.
What I call erosion, the waves call:
I wish the wind would stop rushing us,
I wish we could just take it slow.

In the beauty of whitecaps, I sometimes
see sadness, sometimes how lucky we are
to watch the sunrise one more time.

There’s so much we’re carrying these days—
the seabirds drop another clam shell on shore,
a killdeer runs across the dunes
trying to distract everyone from its nest.

Danger, even when it’s not, is everywhere.
Sometimes I pretend to have a broken wing
as I look out my window. But then a cloudscape
in a world of buffleheads, of saltwater roses,

and I forget fear. It’s 7 a.m. on a Thursday
and an otter is pretending none of my concerns
matter. The otter, a sort of mad hatter,
is diving in and out of the waves, playful.

When the planet says, This is impossible,
the otter responds, Only if you believe it.