Jill Ruscoll
Sapphire Ocean
I try not to think about the sapphire ocean
surrounding our tiny island
where we stood on the beach
listening to the smooth rocks softly knocking together
as the waves lured them back to the sea
Where the small shops with their nautical
orange, cyan, and teal wooden signs invited us in
to ooh and aah over useless objects
Where we purchased our prizes with smiling faces
peeking into our bags for another look
Where we walked rutted dirt roads filled with promise
and an ocean filling our blue eyes
Where growling dogs befriended us
content with our company until they crossed
an invisible line that called them home
Where we took rides at dusk on our salt-rusted bikes
squeaking with each push of the pedal
racing the fading light for one more look
at the grass meadows flowing like hair in the wind
at the silent cows, hushed ponds, and the vastness of the sea
Where we saw the full moon from our room
rising like hope over the marsh
and over the little zoo across the street
with its odd assortment of creatures
who were never curious, always bored
I try not to think about you being as far
as the tiny tugboat on the horizon
headed north, away from our sweet place
Where we stood barefoot, ankle deep in water
each with a heart, grown in the same womb
at the same time, so many years ago
mesmerized by the deep rumble of the waves
not noticing how they stole the sand beneath our feet
River
She drives eight hours south to ride
her bike along the Delaware River.
Long ago a life here, raised
two boys, loved
them with everything she had.
Tires keep pace with the moving water,
dry air eddies around her
filled with memories so deep
she is in a river of herself.
She rides the dirt path for days,
feels her youth returning
until the last day
when the sun simmers crimson
from the fires in Canada.
Smoke stalks the tender landscape,
erases it farm by farm, takes her lungs,
suffocates her eyes.
A reckoning of what cannot be undone.
Fields, homes, her bones, brittle,
ready to ignite,
too far from the river.
With little choice she leaves,
maybe for the last time—
she is at that age—
heads north
into the burdened sky.
