Waiheke

You yearn so much

you could be a yacht.

Your mind has already

set sail. It takes a few days

to arrive

at island pace,

but soon you are barefoot

on the sand,

the slim waves testing

your feet

like health professionals.

You toe shells, sea glass, and odd things

that have drifted for years

and finally

washed up here.

You drop your towel

and step out of

your togs, ungainly,

first

your right foot, then

the other

stepping down

the sand

to stand

in the water.

There is no discernible

difference

in temperature.

You breaststroke in

the lazy blue.

A guy passing in a rowboat

says, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

And it is. Your body

afloat in salt

as if cured.