Change of Air
I need a Change of Air, a convalescence,
but not like the Victorians and their time away at the seaside:
melancholy, neurasthenia, spleen.
I don’t need the ocean air,
the salty mist to cure my failing lungs,
an escape from miasma,
my last hope.
I need a baptism.
The vast ocean
spilled out before me,
the boundless, untouchable sky above me,
the gracious, ancient sand solid yet changeable
reminding me that to be of this place is to be tumbled
the orange-pink sun dying once more
but not without a magnificent fight,
silently showing up all that blue.