The Black Sea

The boy quickens his pace,
leaves behind a cottage
too silent for sleep.
There, his father, mother, brother
dream upon the creaking springs
of old beds.

A footpath leads among hardwoods
swaying in the wind.
A giant maple looms ahead,
curved trunk spread into a sphere
of branches and twigs,
dried leaves dangling.
Oaks reach out with limbs
that groan to the turning,
as if pointing deeper into the wood.

A breathing rises, falls
above the scraping branches,
rhythm more regular than the wind,
textured like a summer breeze
of rustling leaves,
green, tender, full of juice.
But it's late Fall,
when the sun dips south
and lulls the land to sleep.

He throws back his head,
drinks in stars beyond branches
that fork the sky black.
This is a different place and time,
a new world
where air stings the nose,
leaves salt on the tongue.

Breathing becomes roaring
as the path ends
and feet sink into sand.
He turns up his collar
treads down the slope,
footprints marking passage
from one world to the next.
Then a sheen of rushing water,
ankle-deep and hissing foam,
ice cold soaking through socks and shoes.
He trembles upon a thunderous brink
until the sun rises
and shows him the Sea.

Scott Speck
07/25/99