There is a line between the land and the sea.
Sometimes water laps onto the bank but
mostly it stays in its own territory, an invisible boundary.
Each entity knows its limits and they do not push them.

If you stand right where they meet,
right at the edge of land and sea,
you can meld into both of them, you can
shed your mourning weeds and stand naked
because no one here will care what clothes
you bring your body in. A body is just a body,
as land is land, sea is sea.

You will not be distinct, you will not be separate.

If you have thought ahead, you might sprinkle
the surface of the water with flower petals:
they will not sink, merely float and collect droplets.
These are the petals you plucked from stems in the meadow
those days you waited for him and he never came,
these are the petals that are shaped like your tears,
the tears that no longer come because the petals -
once they became something tangible -
washed the tears away. They became your tears.

And now we come to the water, sprinkled with petals.
This would be a lovely death scene: you could play Ophelia
and surrender to the ebb and flow of the water -
or you could rise above
and play Christ, lamenting to imaginary apostles,
spouting law and reason as they form in your delirious mind.

This place - where the land and water meet -
is your place. Because there are no boundaries:
you could easily step back onto the bank
and pick up the straw basket you left strewn there;
or else you could fall frog-like onto the blanket of petals
and hope that they will hold you because right now
he will not.

(c) copyrighted 07.02.98 , 15:20:34