San Francisco, California

The North Beach wind
is always blowing
always cold,
my hands stuffed into pockets,
huddling into my jacket.

She doesn't seem to mind it,
walking straight into the sun,
her bouquet of red ballons
dancing in the wind.

The sun bounces
red-gold
on the surface of the waves
sea-green, blue-green, white cream
breaking, retreating, breaking ...

She follows them
towards the horizon,
her thin dress,
dancing in the wind,
her hair, flying

Suddenly, she turns,
shrieks as the cold wave
breaks across her naked feet
and she comes running,
laughing,
straight at me.

This Morning

This morning
the sun hangs
in the sky
exactly
where the moon
sat last night.

The kids
in the schoolyard
are making
that joyful
noise.

The spiders
have woven
their art
across
the railing
above
the flowerboxes.

The flowers
have grown
a little.

and I still love you.