A Year in Three Sunsets, 2007

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.