One Beech tree separates the cold Pacific harbor
From a lighthouse that blinks white and turquoise.
Twelve knots of wind kicks the salt up. Port lights
Warn planes, but a single starboard twice the
Width marks the length of boats passing.
Only pairs find such an April night enticing.
Earlier a rain heavied leaves that remain
From autumn. New ones stretch out to guard
Their ancestors. A few are more than one year old.
The lighthouse sends two different rays:
White glides across the ripples in a double-pump;
Turquiose snaps a single moment to sailors
Who find a type of relief in sleazy bars downtown.
Now a fog reminds the pair how eerie ports can be.
Blinking starboards try to find a place to land.
Seaplanes hangers wait for the marines to be sent in.
Chilled rocks seem immovable but they’re not: newborn
Leaves of Beech know nothing of it, and should not.
Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.