Poem: Seeing

Seeing                                                                                              

Walking the Bob Jones Trail along the creek to Avila Beach,
surrounded most of the time by deep June green,
I see a huge, ancient oak tree, it’s lower trunk
and massive gnarled roots encased in rock and dirt,
the Mother Tree as it’s known to some,
its many limbs signaling its gender,
offspring scattered on the hillside below the Buddhist Temple

I see pods of young mothers pushing strollers,
their voices animated with excitement about life and babies,
the passion of their common bond,
small feet kicking from the shadows of their safe ride.

I see a sycamore leaning low across the creek,
a leafy branch parting the slow current
like a parasoled woman trailing her hand
over the side of a boat on a Sunday afternoon.

I see snowy egrets and blue herons
hanging out around the dam and steelhead ladder,
motionless and patient like images in an Audubon painting.

I see, as I walk out of the woods and past a golf course,
a white ball roll to a stop in the long green grass
beneath the gently waving limbs of a willow tree.

I see, at the beach, sun bathers
stretched out sleepily on the warm sand
or strolling along the water’s edge
the cold June surf splashing around their ankles.

I see the pier reaching out and receding across the water
like a lesson in perspective, and I see the horizontal triptych
of sand, sea and sky like a Rothko I saw at MOMA years ago.

It’s not always like this. My mind doesn’t always
clear enough space for my vision. But today,
in the shelter of the woods, or as sudden gusts
whip stinging sand across my legs on the beach,
I get to see, to really see, and it feels good.