At the wild mouth of the Merrimack,
I pivot north to rove the shore.
My Atlantic is quite pacific today;
I feel my lake-like waves advancing
like the white caps on a pond
that seems like adolescent
yesterday
although it’s fifty years in memory
now.
I didn’t know I was the lake back
then,
and when I dived into the water
from the Dubois diving board,
I was really diving in myself.
This later insight arrived in
meditation.
Earlier this morning I saw a swan
upriver
floating on the slow outgoing tide.
I felt its graceful curve of neck
in mine
as I turned to watch it pass, a
brilliant
arc of white within the silvery
mist.
Our silence watches all of this and
knows
that none of this is what I am;
space-time is a single dream with
infinite
dimensions in unfathomable intent.
Listen, the swan is going out to
sea.
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