Jubilee

I would take books and paper, pens
and notebooks, and live in a small

house by the sea. Windows, light.
And every day I would walk along

the shore, feet firm on sand, or sinking
in sand, at water’s edge, sometimes

stepping into the salt water to rinse
clean, or going for stretches in water

to feel its surge and swirl. I’d breathe
in the ocean smell, that fishy, salty

snap, feel the spray. I’d pause at rocks
to see the red starfish clinging there.

The seals would swim along with me
sometimes, as they do, at their distance.

The horizon would do its watery shift
of firm drawn line, or disappear…

That’s what I would do in a jubilee
year, rest and walk beside the ocean,

praying by thinking about things, or
by being grateful, and coming back

to the little house to read and write
things down, wrapped in a blanket.

— Babs