(to Ann with gratitude)

​

The first two pound my knees, the third my thighs,
the fourth and fifth waist-deep.  They shove me back
as though I am unwelcome.  I resist;
I turn and brace my body to the sixth,
digging my heels into the sandy floor.

And then there comes the seventh wave, the rogue
born off-shore by some mysterious
perpetration.  In its gathering
I’m pulled into the rushing undertow.

It rises high above me, and I dive
into the sheer escarpment of the breaker,
careful to maintain a shallow pitch
so as not to scrape the raspy sand.

I feel the rushing violence above me
as the thunderous breaking passes over;
I muster all my strength against the current
and burst out, gasping, in the trailing trough.

Now I breathe the cool serenity,
pondering the violent path it took
to get me here, the aft side of the breakers.

Gracefully, three pelicans fly by, 
so close that I could reach and touch their wings
just as effortlessly as they glide.

I turn and look to southward, parallel 
to the shoreline as the new waves swell;
they are encumbered by a shallow bar
and by its virtue they are breaking sooner,
and I can almost see right through the tube.

The dawning sunlight plays upon the mist
and foam-spray glistens an unearthly white,
and in that misty aura I can see,
just for a fleeting moment, just for me,
and no one else in heaven or on earth,
my very own rainbow.