A poem written in quarantine following a visit to the Massachusetts coast.
Barely rooted sea wrack
stay for an impression,
eight years of raw dusk
at the edge of the shore
Low tide and over-steeped
green tea in a glaze
of sea glass on Horseneck,
for the far bank or sandy boat?
I can’t tell from this far away
melting a northern maple
into a starlit cedar
how it feels on my skin to be home.
Here is the accompanying dance: