I stand between the piper and the gull,

sinking ankle deep into the sand

and wavewashed to the knee.  Aligned will all

reality, I’m baptized where I stand.

          And the dunes whisper, “come home.”

 

The saltwind washes deep. The manic soul

is saturated; soft humidity

permeates. (I play a martyr’s role

within the throes of harsh humanity.)

          But the dunes whisper, “come home.”

 

I stand on the Atlantic’s roiling verge

and dive into the breakers, sanctified

by sluicing currents, cleansed, then I emerge

and shout my exultation to the sky.

          And the dunes whisper, “come home.”