Slow Love is a Salt Marsh
Slow love is a salt marsh,
Waving grass and osprey nests.
Gulls cry and seize onto pilings
that hold back the tide,
the roll of sea, and crushing floods.
A place to paddle slow, beats
Like a heart tentative, quiet dinghy.
Knowing that peace must enter first
Then a quickening of lapping foam
On sand over pebbles, shell shards
Sea glass in muted colors.
In midday heights of sun, warm local
clammers dig deeply and hoard harvested
Mollusks in bushels to markets
And strange steaming pots where the twilight
Diners insist on freshness, eager to
Consume their share.
Love is better slow.
It keeps up with itself that way
The anchors of ancient seafaring skiffs
Remind us how tall tales endure,
Morph into legends of courageous deeds,
Patient, spoken low, over fires, with chalices
Filled with rum and sweet coconut.