Lying in the sand
washed by crashing waves

Eyes closed
we listen to comforting dreams

In the lull of a steady Pacific pull
we fall asleep
three a breast
to rest

To see . . . you see . . . the sea . . . that used to be your Home

We listen to a conch shell whisper a long Atlantic tale
as the call of the Golden Gate still beckons you Home

A poem bubbles in my chest
as we rest
from the rest

No pen to write
wise words
ebb and flow
in rhythmic crashes
telling us

Let go . . . Let go . . . Let go . . .