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

Wickaninnish in blue

Dear Ones,
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 once more 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 might return, briefly,

once again young, 

for the smell of peony

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 smell 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 

secrets and 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  for Earthweal's Open Link.