This Is The Right Time

Screaming joy of Lake Azula, blue white burst of towel, beach ball umbrella burden of the sun, absurd delineation of children splashing, laughing, but only here - the rest unknowable depths. And so the tiny hands go on plumbing the same sandy shore, once again told by megaphone voice that here is where you be and there is where you aren't, risk is diminished as excitement eviscerated - all is well: God's in his heaven, children within the ropes. And not a bit of unbridled rock jumping. But the wind knows, and the sand knows, and the toes know, dragging now along the invisible algae, light broken into beams which reach in all places to a watery center, a point which is all places. The plastic goes on floating, water goes on flowing, the wind, again, will be blowing - mother's loving touch to the father sun's scorched concern. They all say "of course"; few breathe "thank you". Lotion, more separation, nature area: this way, and the concrete meets the sand meets the grass and feels a distant kinship, as the bottoms of feet bounce along the coal-hot beach, begging for cool relief of stream fed bath, the confusion of apart and within, absorption and exception. Held breath, closed eyes, open arms, spread legs, sweat no longer sweat, and, finally, womb drone quieting, all in all and all and all, one drop.

- Berkley