coastal

My children are fairies.
They drift in and out of worlds,
rules, songs, memories.
They lift gently, float, fall, delight.
My children leave a trail of splendor,
sparkle, golden sand and long, soft curls.
He speaks her language,
repeats what she says,
guarantees to play by her rules until
he doesn't anymore
and they flap their wings
in frustration,
like all mythical creatures,
it isn't all harmony.

In Neah Bay the wind whistles
suds curl like wishes back and forth on the water,
in her hand, carried like precious bubbles.
We wear hoods and huddle on cool sand,
await the sun through the trap of marine layer.
In the distance, the black shapes of surfers,
up close, two children who race and imagine.

I place my belly on the mat and
take my notebook out of the bag.
Mama!  You said you'd help us with the sand!
Pretend you don't see me, I say.
And, as if by magic,
they pick up their pails and move down the shore.

I know there will be a time not long from now
when I"ll miss their endless demmands,
little limbs and hard heads in my space,
voices that travel through sand dunes,
across campsites,
over ocean waves,
Mama!  Come here!
Mama!