Sunday Afternoon at the Rockland Breakwater

We march, matching strides, along Rockland's Breakwater,
with January thaw breezes and a warming sun out of place
in the last days before winter's solstice.
We step around tidal pools afloat with ice,
past urchins smashed by careless boots
past sea ducks that strike glittering poses
in smart black and white tuxedos
among the dowdy gulls.

Our bodies take pleasure in the act of striding
in the almost-warm sand releasing sea glass
in the slap of boots upon granite
in the caress of an out-of-season sun
in the lapping of the waves
in the explosion of spray on seashore boulders
in the taste of salt in the December air.

Our minds walk separately,
cueing into the possibility of discord
bearing up under an erratic pulse
giving in to the loss of harmony
believing imagination's folly.

At breakwater's end, we sit on a bench,
align our physical bodies with the swath of yellow
sun that beats upon the water. This warmth cuts through
the questioning, the worrying, the foolish presumptions--

I rest my head upon your shoulder
uncertain why it feels suddenly fine to do so
but grateful for its welcoming warmth.