An Empty Surfboard on a Flat Sea
will always gleam in sunlight. There it is,
paint chipped off, still afloat. Now I recall
that day when harsh winds blew into a gale
and lashed a man who climbed a slab like this,
lay prone on green wood, rose up on one knee,
arms flailing, stood and walked high waves to shore.
On land, he stroked his wetsuit, slicked back hair,
kissed the plank for luck, then turned to sea.
As the surfer hauled it, he and the board
were one, a tall cross for a gravestone marker.
I shouted, “Stop!” as though he were no stranger.
He vanished and raced back. I shook in fear
for us who risk the breaker’s ride and fall
or skid to firm sand and survive the gale.