In the wake of February’s icy outburst,
a foamless tide rumples the sleek
morning sheets of Hug Point.
Crisp air—only the Pacific Northwest
can emit; Clattering black rocks soon
fetched by rolling tongues.
Between us and the cumulus,
an uncanny affinity—
like a cool embrace that, in good
faith, places its benign fingers
on our shoulders, awaiting our consent,
before reeling us in.
The mist harbors a spiteful taste.
Seeping through our nylon windbreakers,
clinging like a static bedsheet.
We stop.
Glassy goosebumps slide down
our arms as we crouch over a stiff body.
There are others, dozens—blending in
with the rocks. Our naked fingers stroke
the rugged edges of a frozen sea cucumber.
Winter whispers her repentance
into the glass tomb; Warmth
from our tears thaw the pink flesh
encased inside, pulsing
like a flickering candle.
Fresh waves are summoned
to comb a new bed—braving
the uphill battle to reach the shipwreck.
Eager rafts of promise recede
with the tide, and we hold each other
with sobering smiles
as the starfleet returns home.