Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

Flanked by buttressed mangrove towers,
Mud, smooth black and gritty grey,
Clings to wrist and ankle, friendly, warm.

Reaching down into the happy muck,
Calves and arms are washed by
Lazy waves of regulated period.

Retrieving oysters, standing, stretching,
Supper’s rough-shelled prizes
Drip cool drops on marshy wavelets.

Up, above the swaying, breeze-rocked trees,
Lighted pylons fade in
Programmed sunset
Bringing back the star-strewn night.

Further, past the glassy half-dome,
Blue-white globe, ancestral Earth,
Swings her partner in their
Lunar dance.