Writing about camping recently on Bodega Bay harbor and enjoying another sunset in the town where my parents lived in their retirement, I was reminded of the following poem.
A Year in Three Sunsets, 2007
1.
Mom's street slides down the hill
and curves back up. At the bottom
of the loop my son and I stop
and watch the Pacific open
its mouth for the sun. We wait
for the green flash that might occur
on a clear day just after the sun
slips into the ocean and that
so delighted Dad. Today
there is none.
2.
The remote
shuts the garage door on the now
quiet house that pulsed while all
our children visited. Seeking the coast
we turn west on 128, drive
through the rain and fog and into
a tunnel of moss-hung trees. Reaching
Highway 1 we squiggle north for a time
along the edge of the Pacific before
pulling into a turnout. We climb
down to a cove and picnic in its shelter
while white horses race across the waves
manes and tails flying. Later
as the ocean slides over the sun
the highway empties. In every turnout
humanity silences the rush
and faces west as though commanded
by the twilight to attend. We turn
so quickly, I say.
3.
A man stands
in the brown grass of the cliff
along the bottom curve of the loop
hands waiting in his leather jacket's pockets
camera expectant on a tripod
as our slice of earth turns
away from the sun. All around the loop
people stand at windows
on decks. I run up the steps
calling to Mom. She is standing already
by the sliding glass door. We watch the sun
expand at the edge of the ocean
and the clouds glow fiery then fade
and the ocean and clouds merge
into twilight and it seems everything
holds its breath
to listen
to the sensation of peace.
