One of those wet mornings

more than dew

less than rain

when the first of the sun

moves like slow glistening arms

and the front yard looks ready to leave for a party

wrapped in cellophane.

Summer’s coming.

 

At the water’s edge

the gap between worlds is tiny

or not there at all

the sea mixes with sand and sand with sea

blue and yellow

become green

and sometimes

red.

 

Bathers lay or frolic

stand in footprints made once

by soldiers

landing or repelling.

This place between worlds

where memory ebbs and flows

tides of pain and bliss

history and ignorance to it

or just willful forgetting.

There’s the sun, after all

and the breeze in the sea air

filled with voices

between the worlds

ebbs and flows

remember, forget

remember, forget.

Summer’s coming.

 

–Danny Grosso