Without a break, a stopping point, where?
Without white foam wind swirling through rock bridges, where?
Without canopies of cypress, wise trunks bent like licorice,
where do I go?
Without sand assaulting bare skin, its cool secret buried,
lungs filling, the smell of salt on the in-breath, a kind of ancient palette, where?The land – make it stop. Make it yield. No more.
Something to swallow me, somewhere dangerous, deep.
Without it, there is nowhere.
There is nowhere here for me to pray.

Anthology 2017: Celebrating Writers of the Pioneer Valley