Recently I sat and talked with a fellow poet and we circled the idea of revision. When is a poem done? First draft, 5 years later? Of course there is no answer to this question, which is why I love it. This is a poem I first wrote 5-6 years ago, revised. I see it differently now. I like this version better. Thanks for reading.
The coast Why don’t I live on a coast? Having been born on one, being a water bearer. Maybe it’s like bearing children A beauty too great to hold eventually escapes you. Maybe it’s because I’m an air sign. I was bound to wander, And live in the driest place A soul dehumidified is less weighty. Maybe I still need to find my outer edges. And so, I’m here again waves nipping at my legs, smooth beach stones at my feet. I collect rocks compulsively. I fill my hands then my kids’ beach buckets. But the rocks dry out and their wet colors fade. I bring them home. and place one in your hand. This is my heart, I tell you. And because you can feel the ocean echo in a stone and have tasted my tears I didn’t need to say it. You already knew.
Another beauty, Johanna!