Santa Cruz
Written 5/06/01 on a vacation

Sun-tipped cirrus fingers,
across the sky they reach--toward something.
A movement, a sound, surging
where land ends and sea begins.
In the rush of waves and seagull wings,
a wind kisses skin bared
to the gentle blue of oceans;
and sand coats toes in a second layer.
Caresses of nature, a blissful moment,
peace settles without and within.
Soft, welcome lips bending to touch,
meeting the eyes of a true friend,
and tasting the salt that clings to him.