What the stiff breeze and the ocean have to say
remains a mystery. Who are we to
try to understand the splinters of a
broken boat that stray onto the beach? Or,
suppose the sleeve from a small jacket ends
up on some jutting rocks—what are we to
glean from that? Then there are the grasses that
nearly reach the waterline, but never
quite get there…the necklace, the watch,
the scrap of lingerie in those grasses
must be some kind of prophecy or an
omen, but what kind? A few nights ago,
I dreamed of Pawley’s Island. The water
was so warm there in the Atlantic,
that I was shocked and wondered if I was
really asleep. Then a house nearby caught
on fire and the ocean, understanding
the urgency, rose up—put the fire out.
The silence was profound and the only
sound to be heard in the dreamscape was a
far-off bell on a buoy, ringing out the
riddles only the seaweed understands.
