Evenings, as the sun sank into darkness
and the unfurling Atlantic ocean
tossed foam carelessly upon the sand,
sadly depositing the detritus of life;
entangled seaweed and rotting wood;
I would think of my home in Indiana.

The Costa del Luz is unlike these fields in Indiana
where the corn rattles in the late summer darkness.
The maple and poplar leaves twist in the woods,
mediums for a ghostly wind that hisses across the ocean
taking small scuttling creatures, to which it gave life,
and leaving them, curtly, upon the sand.

Buried within the slowly shifting sand
piled in my parents’ back yard in Indiana,
a small plastic warrior waives his life
in the engulfing darkness.
“I’d like to see, just once, the ocean,”
he thinks, nestled there against rotting wood.

Meanwhile, another small warrior with a scarred red coat
showing a heart of wood
has at least seen the ocean,
has stared out, past the littered sand,
dreaming of a toy box in Indiana.
The gouges and dents of twenty years fade in the darkness
as he contemplates life.

Millions of years ago, these southern hills teemed with life.
Not the coyote or rabbit scouting the woods
for food or prey in the darkness,
but smaller, meaner creatures dreaming of sun and sand,
and of standing erect, and walking through the trees in Indiana,
long after it is to be unblanketed by the ocean.

So now, when I dream, at night, of the ocean,
I hear it telling stories of our life.
And it calls to me here, in Indiana
enticing me out of these woods,
trying to guide me to the deserted sand
where I can see the waves speaking in the darkness.

For now, I walk atop ocean crust, within these domesticated woods
where, eons ago, life beached itself upon the sand
to find its home in Indiana, and in darkness.


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