At the seaside we can take a look back on our lives and forward to our next voyage.

I’ve got a bee in my mind and I can’t sleep tonight.

Such is my punishment for drinking yerba mate in the afternoon, or for transcribing poetry for hours many hours of the day. It could be the 3 weeks of backpacking in the most Southern point of America starting tomorrow. Or that lovely lady who gave me her number (which I promptly lost), perhaps it’s the visit of a good friend tonight. Or is it something more Western? Berlin has open boarding. The 2010 census is hiring, the Ameri-Corps application can be site specific, and the Peace Corps application is well under way. Or is it something bigger like Copenhagen, the snow, or thoughts.

Oh poetry! To feel the presence of your cool blue water under the starlight.

. . . San Francisco Seaside

My own longest poem ends in DC.

It is 58 days long and too many bicycle patches to count.  One shipmate lost on the journey: 1. b2 to b4, King down. The silence of such a poem can be overwhelming. Even worse can be noises of the company you keep inside. To my great fortune the bouncer for my minds door was a good one and lively conversations ensued within. Who were the alternatives? There is only greatness! Frank the cowboy, Walt forever wandering, Priests with open doors, Mothers with sons at war, and the most humble Rainbow ever known.

At its end was autumn: a Monet in orange.