West Coast Woman

In your times of quiet, west coast woman,
do images return that we saw through our
affection be-sotten eyes, in that golden time
when we walked together?

As you travel that west coast I’ll always love,
do you sometimes visit beaches we combed for
heart-shaped pebbles, or high places where
we watched the red sun sink away?

A still-young woman, and still beautiful, and
an architect of landscapes for rich homes,
you drove a pickup truck, laughing off any
idea of downstream appearances.

One evening it carried us into the mountains
to watch meteors spark and fall, you and I warm
under quilts in the truckbed, with good wine,
spectators of the clear night sky.

Another time, we arrived late at your home
with a truck-cab full of old songs on the radio,
old songs we paused to hear, and we called in
to request one from the DJ.

Such a song, such music!

Last night, in this place, the moon shone down,
same old moon that sheds gentle light where
Pacific waves roll up onto sand, re-arranging
any heart-shaped pebbles we missed.

Some evening when you stroll with friends
after entertainment or a festive dinner, perhaps
the moonlight will catch your eye, and you’ll
remember this poem, and us.

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