|Paolo Roversi photo of Tasha Tilberg|
by David Wagoner
The ledge of light, flat over the pier, Tilts into darkness as the sun fails; And all those glinting shreds on the water pour Downward under waves gone slack like sails.
Now, in the shade, swells trundle the flotsam in And strand it, hulking, where the stones waver Like mice in the grey shallows.
What greens remain Are deeper than olive-kelp.
All fish roll over.
O the rain comes slowly from its anchorage Near the furthest spars, and, falling aslant, Nudges the air inward like a wedge To the cove's rim, drenches it dead and faint, And grounds it with the flotsam, lolling there More like uprooted sea wrack than air.
(again - a poem from Dry Sun, Dry Wind and again I messed with his poem by putting the sentences together instead of the spacing of the original in the book...I don't usually do this to poems but I found the imagery so beautiful and compelling, so non-fictional and Pacific Northwest-ish that it just reads that way to me. Apologies to Mr. Wagoner.)