After Mary Oliver
I made these islands.
I made the bonxie, and the ewe.
I made the grey seal.
This grey seal, I mean –
the one who has hauled flipper and blubber out of the water,
the one who is rock-bathing in the voe,
who is biding time, taking rest –
who is gazing out at orca fins far off.
Now he lifts his inquisitive head at the human fin.
Now he slips off his skerry and dives below.
I know what prayer is.
I know how to walk to the abandoned sixareen pier, how to peer
into the crisp, clear brine,
how to be pulled with the heartbeat of the ocean,
which is what I have been doing for eternity.
Tell me, where else should I be?
Doesn’t everyone long to be somewhere other than where they are right now?
Tell me, what is it that I could do
with the remaining winters of my life?