All the Boats

All the boats are grounded in the harbor;
their masts are spectral lines
revealing the morning's composition
to those who can read God's mind.

The turning screws of the incoming wavelets;
the overlapping folds of the incoming wavelets,
like napkins laid neatly on the table of the shore;
the minor ridges of the incoming wavelets
that run beneath the water's dimples,
lifting them up
lowering them down
and leaving them behind;

nothing here's extraneous
except possibly a man and his dog.
Left alone, this place becomes
a demonstration of, and quiet meditation on
necessity, which orders everything in its reach
and lies beneath, the silent meaning
of this stony beach.

February 7 2012