Perhaps I sat too long, feet dangling
from the troubled wharf as the gulls
committed their noisy intrusions?
Perhaps I drank too deeply
of the preening dew, her skin
stretched wide upon the grass, wanting?
Perhaps I met my match
in the atrocity of a Herculean day
held up beside my pallid, frayed self?
Perhaps I gawked too lightly
into a pinafore sky, turned inside
out against the paling hours?
Perhaps I missed the voice
of shadows winding, deftly
pointing out the obvious?
Perhaps I was surprised
at how easy it has been
to see nothing in everything?
Perhaps these questions merely distract
from the gift of just sitting here?
Photo by D. Legin