marsh side

Spartina from the Storm

I go to see the marsh grass each day, the swaying green bringing jubilation to the sound’s fringes, I go to see it as the sun sets when it glows a flaxen yellow, radiation from its fingertips,

It is the life of the isles before dusk.

Last summer the storm raised up choppy waters, As the surge swallowed the snails atop the golden refuge, those spears waged war against the inexorable current, from their muddy roots, from the elements.

The sky was blue again the next day, a day so fair to go see the opulent grass, Yet the marsh no longer shone, brackish, brown demise, drowned by its own nature,

Still each day I traveled to see it, hoping to see a speck of glow, hoping to glimpse upon those swaying sun rays in the sand, But now I wish I had waited to look upon the marsh again, For I never noticed how green the spartina grew each day.

Out of the Golden Isles

I harken back to those dilapidated homes, Filled with the youth of a generation, attempting to crystallize moments fleeting, As I roam the chartreuse blots of marsh, like oil and water, there appears the two cranes together, soaring to display their wanderlust, as do I, In these glowing estuaries are the new lives I speak of, the ecology of convergence, Where the ebb of the tide does not erode, but create anew the Garden of the World, A home, constantly transformed but free from transformation, a native place, a time period, a sovereign, a memory, My migration is one of a natural succession of things, a rite of all those who grace themselves with the spartina grass, Be it the whales from the Arctic, or the butterflies from South America, it is to thee, dear mother of the Golden Isles, that we ceaselessly return to lose ourselves in the warm embrace, the tepid waters, the brilliant green. Now, as the sun meets the waves, as the grass points towards me, I want to grasp that salience, for I know that I cannot bring it with me, Equally knowing that I will lose myself once again, transitory for the gifts granted to the amblers, perhaps next in Appalachia, It is to you, home, wherever you are, that I hope to return.

We Are an Endangered Species, You and I

We are an endangered species, you and I, We, lovers of power, devotees of performance – go away, we are told, There is hardly a place for us out here anymore, not amongst all the commuters and congestion,

Not in this growing age of safety and restraint, where practicality trumps adrenaline. The evidence is everywhere, you and I are being squeezed out, pushed aside, and hunted down,

And yet, there is hope, there is a safe haven, a place where we are free to challenge conventions, push the laws of physics and utilize our powerful and beautiful machines, It is not a monastery free from civilization, or even a field outstretched for frolicking and jubilation,

It is not even a place, but it is more than that, It is a communal celebration, Of power, of histories, of victories, of competition, of grip, of beauty, of technology, of innovation, of heat, of shouting, of community, of love, of friendship, of life, It is the last bastion of a life vital, And it is right there in the living room, mounted on the wall.