Ocean’s Edge
A poem by Mary Kay Rummel

Ocean’s Edge

Swimming up from sleep, I hear
wind shake the window frame
watch for the welcome streak of rain
across the glass and when it’s over,
walk to the gray Pacific.

Kelp tangles, dark on the beach,
stripe the sand. My feet explode
tiny bulbs of sea wrack. Just offshore,
a seal shows me how to ride a wave,
to surface on granite, spread
on rock to dry.

My grandmother, that strong Kerry woman,
rocked in her chair and told me of seals,
selkies who take the form of women
then change into seals again.

Some are your cousins, children of Maura,
captured on the rocks off Dingle,
who married, had children
then returned to the sea.

Today a selkie points to the beach
Where yellow marigolds,
glowing gorse bushes light the walk
among patches of purple heliotrope.
Look for light patterns, she says
how it’s dark beneath them.

A shaft of light slants through the mist,
sends arrows into the waves
singles out a patch of vineyard
on the mountainside, gold illumines
mustard on the hills.

Look every day.
Where life began, it begins again
in the waters that hold you.
Then she dives leaving me on shore
remembering how my grandmother
ended her story:

Someday you will go there, and you will know
the truth of my words more lasting
than the wealth of the world.

About the Author:

Mary Kay Rummel’s ninth poetry book, Nocturnes: Between Flesh and Stone, was published by Blue Light Press of San Francisco. This Body She’s Entered, won a Minnesota Voices Award from New Rivers Press and was a finalist for the Minnesota Book Award. The Lifeline Trembles won the Blue Light Award from Blue Light Press. She is poet laureate emerita for Ventura County, CA. marykayrummel.com

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