Watch for Me, a Sandpiper at the Edge of the Sea

Dear Earth,

I will return to the shores of Wickaninnish,

roiling in winter storm.

I shall come back to watch the morning break

against blue sky and rose-tinged puffy cloud,

to see all the creatures stir and waken,

and the day unfold.

I shall return to gaze in wonder,

at the end of day,

as the sun sinks, purple, azure, gold,

below the horizon,

and the skies become a masterpiece

painted by God.

I may return as a seabird,

as Jonathan, 

still outside of the pack, observing, 

still hobbling on the ground

and dreaming of the sky.

I'll pick a shell in my beak 

and carry it off to my perch,

then drop it,

deep in the forest,

for a wanderer to find, 

and marvel at, years hence.

Or I might be a sandpiper, 

one of the flock,

lifting and turning together

as one body, at the edge of the sea.

How could my spirit not return

to the forests and rivers and ocean I love,

to catch my breath once more as the morning mist

drapes itself companionably across Lone Cone,

to behold again her slopes turning deepest rose

in late afternoon?

The call of the murmurous, forever waves,

the smell of salt, kelp and seaweed,

ocean essence will draw me, as before,

to the beautiful shore.

I will return, once again young,
to the desert along the lake
where I began,

for the smell of peony and sweet pea

on soft-scented summer evenings,

for a shy, youthful kiss under weeping willow,

lake ripples lapping gently,

and all of life's hopes and dreams lying ahead,

all golden and shining.

I will return for apple blossoms, 

and the scent of sage and Ponderosa pine
on hot, dusty hills

covered with yellow flowers.

But then the shore will draw me back,
as it always did,
the blue sky drawing my gaze
as it did for all my many years.
I will heed the call of the ancient trees,

where restless spirits live,

their mournful song whispering  wisdom -

urgent truth for us to hear and heed,

if we but listen.

If I don't return in body,

I will return as raindrops on salal,

as moss on an old stump,

or old man's beard on cedar.

I will return

in wagging puppy-tails 

and wise old elephant eyes,

or a grey whale, diving, 

its fluted tail arching over and up,

then slipping down, down, 

into the mysterious depths.

Watch the world with wonder,

as I have these many years,

and you'll find me,
never farther away than

the nearest beautiful thing.

A poem from 2016, to be shared with the good folks at Poets United on Sunday morning.