What Matters

Hobe Sound, dusk and the kind of silence
sung by nature—chirps, laps, croaks, splashes,
swish of air over heron’s wings, osprey’s cry
before diving—which isn’t silence at all
but a sort of soothing whir and thrum.
 
Here for one night, anchored in water
named Indian. Along the shore, sea grapes
hunker together. Mangroves push knobby ankles
into the river, and two sabal palms stand
behind like watchful parents.
 
I’m thinking of Mary 
whose work was loving the world,
who was learning to befriend the mangroves
of which she wrote 
    and so leggy, and all of them rising as if
    attempting to escape this world, which don’t
    they know can’t be done? 
 
Adrift on cerulean, watching the sun
lower its light on a forlorn day, I worry
a tear in my sleeve, wanting an earth
with her still on it writing poems, 
perhaps having tea near a window
 
and watching ink spread across our shared sky. 
Then this—the beating heart of Presence, 
palpable and strong. Astonishment 
rolls over me as I raise my eyes and see
that it is all held, enwombed, all— 
 
I; the osprey’s rise, scales glistening in its talons; 
cars’ hum from a close but unseen highway; 
slow gloaming; power lines; unlovely mangroves; 
 
my torn jacket; this boat, gently rocking, 
rocking forever.   

© 2019 Dede Mitchell