Fingering Tidemarks

Snow melt runs through the eaves. I struggled to surface from an unending dream at the bottom of the sea. I can hear morning – the dog's nails clicking along the wood floor – the coffee maker gurgling as it finishes the brew cycle – school buses coming to a clamorous stop. Yet I can't shake the dream.

nothing to claim
this ageless dream
fingering the tidemarks
of the ebbing
past

Fields and hills darken in the melt. The Grand River overruns banks, bike paths and highway barriers. It is not spring. We are the nameless source ruining the world. Have you seen my wars all over the world? The cartography is a ruse. I'm almost begging you to stop falling for it. Sit back. Swig from your cask of milk and honey. Your comfort makes the stars tremble; your insistence parts the seas of peace. We've damned it all.

Crushed evergreen bushes begin to regain shape as snow withdraws. Small birds find their way back to the feeders and rabbit trails disappear with the melt. When the earth reappears I test it with my bare feet. Do you still love me?

Look back on Time, with kindly Eyes -
He doubtless did his best -
How softly sinks that trembling Sun
In Human Nature's West -

~ Emily Dickinson

I can't seem to picture our West, but perhaps that inability is the last gift we are given as humans before we fall asleep one last time at the bottom of the sea.