Sitting at my desk, having just finished making my November calendar for the bulletin board and listening to instrumental hymns, and my father calls me to say that he is sitting on the cliffs at the beach back home, watching a school of humpback whales lolling by the Santa Cruz wharf. Apparently the water is full of paddle boarders, surfers, kayaks, and whales, and it is a sight to see. He said my mother should be along soon with a sandwich from Gayle's bakery for him. I couldn't really come up with anything in response to how wonderful that sounds.
I have no solace for your eyes,
when they have seen oceans grey and glimmering,
and surging schools of whales along the cliffs.
I have nothing with which to comfort these hands
that have held salt and sea between them,
and grasped at foam along the edges of heat and chill.
And I can offer no comfort for you, here,
when all I have are dying leaves,
you will have to find it in the reaches of your own
mind. You remember, and I will sit
imagining the spray of the blue.