California, my home & heart
by Patty Seyburn
The stones of a singing beach
are thrown atop each other.
When the tide remits,
stones sing as the water sifts
through, reshifting the layers
like when I climb over then under
you who sleep, lightly snoring.
If I were a daymoon, showing its face
with the sky still hysterically blue,
I'd have the grace to look
guilty, an icon of excess light:
we have enough, can't you see?
As for the birds
who trill and prattle by night,
I forgive them their obdurate tunes:
they wake us
so I can revel in your fairness.
PHOTO FROM STINSON BEACH