It was to be my brave new world
my personal private continent;
an urban forest of bald eagle
Bach and blustery beach.
I drank my morning coffee
in empty homes and short sales,
researched annual rainfall,
bakeries and bookstores.
At night I shore walked
and woke in other writer’s homes.
Wind whipped on the ferry
I didn’t think about the monster
beneath the bow — running East-West,
buried beneath the bed.
I ignored evidence of beaches raised and lowered.
I rationalized geological time was not my time.
But when the earth shifted
unable to bear the strain any longer,
and espresso ripples sloshed
and the croissant missed my mouth
and fear ran down my face
while looking for my children,
in that one second, and not the thousands before,
I understood fully the need for release.
Published in Cirque, A Literary Journal for the North Pacific Rim
Volume 3, No. 2 – Summer Solstice 2012