Soaking it up, baby. Sabbatically speaking.
Another Sabbatical Poem, this one is from February, still rough though:
Sabbath/Storm and White Birds
We stared west and watched it,
standing on the sidewalk, the wind raking over us.
The seagulls hovered,
glowing white against that grey curtain.
It was stunning.
I stood with my hand shading my eyes, like I was staring toward the sun.
It never even rained that day and it was still coming in on Sunday when I sat in the wooden chair out back looking straight up this time watching the clouds.
Masses and masses of grey and white all moving quickly north.
The gulls were letting themselves drop and rise with the wind. Just freewheeling it.
I remembered him saying: “I think I actually have a pretty good idea of what flying would be like. I think my dreams are so vivid that I know what it would be like if I could fly.”
“So do I”, I said. “So does everyone. Everyone has those dreams, so we can all imagine it.”
We all have a pretty good idea of what it would be like. I can imagine it without much effort, almost like I’m remembering doing it.
So I just closed my eyes and the storm that was coming kept on coming until it passed us by, but I imagined what it would be like if it actually did storm and it was almost like remembering it.