The cliffs of the sea, stunted and black
stretch crookedly in a line between
the land and the sea. And me,
I am well content
with windowsills collecting dust,
and apples every fall 'til come famine or flood.
A dissatisfied grin, a shambled gate:
the cliffs are strung out like skeleton teeth.
Or the teeth of a rake left out in the rain
for too long. And I chose
to stride one side, plant my seeds and feet
rather than water, and drifting for weeks.
High tide, low tide; a gray spring sea
calm 'til it smells a storm on the breeze
and whips itself wild. And I,
with my fields all freshly tilled and sown--
I am just like a sail tugging at the ropes.
And the cliffs bare their teeth, ill and hungry, and dare
me to pass through their crumbling wall.
Come famine or flood, I will. I shall.