Holdfast
Last week of August: too soon for falling
leaves, fog that rises at dawn, ghosts up
the beach, geese lining up in their ragtag V.
Beyond the sandstone ledge carved
like a torso by the waves, beyond
purple sea stars inching toward tide pools,
ribbons of bull kelp drift with the tide,
ebb and flow, anchored to the sea floor
by a half-inch barnacle called a holdfast.
It knows the principle of hunkering down,
riding out the storm, staying put. All
winter, beneath the sea’s relentless chop
it holds fast, gives over to each storm,
flows with each rising tide. All winter
it lets go what it can, holds fast to the rest.
That’s what we’ll do come November.
Hold fast to what sustains: our friends,
a steaming bowl of soup, this beach.
