After the Storm, West Cliff Drive

The dark torrents are not finished
with the redwoods and ridges
of Felton and Ben Lomond.

Blue opens over the harbor
like an iceplant flower.
The clouds bloom also,

playful, bucolic and white.
This is how the mind works,
troubled, then pacified

by a single, slow breath
that clears everything out
with astonishing grace.

Four surfers, water seekers,
paddle into muddy peaks
on a newly formed sandbar,

the swell as the last trace
of the storm, of winter.
Ancient pilings emerge

on the sand at low tide,
looking like the Moia
found on Easter Island,

or mourners in a line,
staring out at the sea,
awaiting deliverance.

© Jon Obermeyer 2024

photo by author