Almost a Conversation

Here the waters are brackish,
Here the confluence of salty and sweet,
An in-between place where lichen turns to stone,
A merging of black and blue become purple with the red of a rising sun.

Here there is hope, the first and furious emergence of Spring,
The fierce appearance of a wild iris amid crags.
Here there is grief, a lasting goodbye to the flowing creek
That becomes the dry bed of Summer.

Hope can be too sweet,
Too promising, too ambitious, treacle.
Grief can be too salty,
White lines a receding tide left on cheeks.

Where the waters are brackish,
There is a swell of jazz,
African rhythms,
European instruments,
A blue note turned purple,
A coming and a going,
A smile and a sigh.