Beach Rituals
At sixteen my son and his two friends
are cresting the first wave of manhood –
their arms and legs extend
from their torsos like freshly molded
coils of clay, and a glaze of down
glistens on their upper lips.
After slapping on a few dabs of sunscreen
they trudge across the sand, in the wake
of three Venus de Milos with dimpled hips.
Laughter trails away with the cries
of gulls and breakers. A breeze carries
the scent of salt, mollusks, and seaweed
to my spot under a lime-green tent,
where I’m sheathed in a long-sleeve blouse,
protected with sunglasses and a hat.
They bare their chests beneath
a sun nailed to the sky, poised to forget
that I’m in the background, waiting.
***
This one was supposed to be about routines, but I veered from the theme a bit. It’s hard to write or even think about routines when I’m at the beach.
From my vantage point on a bench outside the Venice Library there’s a giant palm tree, a live oak with a wide canopy,and a lovely sea breeze calling me back to the waves. I miss you all, but I’ll catch up when I return on Sunday. I have a few poems to write between now and then, since I’m a day behind with napowrimo!
Balanced On the Edge 
Ah, you capture it so well. “Poised to forget,” that about sums it up, this age, doesn’t it?
LikeLike
Really like this, especially the last stanza. You’ve done so well this week……pressure to write obviously agrees with you! Have fun in your tent — I also cover up!
LikeLike
Beautiful scene, poem. I wish I were there. (Similarly clothed!)
LikeLike
as much as i long to be needed by these little boys at my feet a little less, i dread being relegated to the background when they get a little older. this shows that dynamic well.
LikeLike
A pervading wistful resignation, C.
I’m picturing you as the mysterious sunglassed stranger on the beach. (Dip your toes in the water for me …)
LikeLike
a sun nailed to the sky, poised to forget
an unforgettable line. Great write, C.
LikeLike
Gorgeous poem, Christine.
LikeLike