Jana Katz
Two miles of pavement from the bus stop
disappear into a narrow path between wildflowers
and poison ivy,
in a shadow of a hill
with a winding dirt road made of New England soil.
Might as well be cobblestones.
Surrounding trees
curve into stillness,
whittled down
from weathering the salty air.
Towering sandy cliffs,
porcelain fortresses
impose majesty and fragility
on everything beneath.
A mighty current slaps land
where there once was none;
low-lying inclines, washed-out dunes
rest like battle wounds from hurricanes
peppering the coast.
Cresting waves
know only the tide.