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Soon the sky will go red
and that is exactly when to write the poem,
when one finds a volcanic sofa-shelf of rock
on a day of Clima – pools
couldn’t team with enough life,
crabs quick/side-step all they like,
and fish dart from edge to edge
wondering why the sea became so small,
because when a sun clouded in sand
is cut by the horizon line, and rays of fingers stretch
from there to here,
it is then one writes a poem
from a sofa day of Clima,
when sunset hands illuminate the land,
when surf bubbles
at last, having worn that rock
to a tiny grain of black sand
holding an essence of story,
it is then one really should write the poem,
before it gets too cold and too dark to see
the crabs side step, the fish,
and the sun
clouded in sand,
cut by a horizon line
just too clouded..
