You dived for us into night-dark

bringing mysteries to light—

harlequin and psychedelic

kaleidoscopic explosions

gliding through branches of living coral—

the eight-armed    the finned

creatures who breathe salt waters in the way

that we who clomp noisily

on rock sand and pavement

depend on wind-carried air.

 

In mask and goggles

wearing a backpack of oxygen

you hunted the strange and beautiful

not with knife, net, or gun

but with a camera

brought them up to our earth

to live

as incandescent prints and slides

magically projected. 

 

And on our landed world

you hunted wild blossomings 

to transplant and nurture

beside your front door.

 

I do not dive into saltwater depths,

gaze only at surfaces—

sunlit ripples breaking into jewels,

horizon on gray days

blending sky with sea.

I pick up shells, find quivering jellyfish

surf discards onto sand,

follow simple sights and sounds

of shore birds, blur of sandpiper legs,

harsh calls of gulls

 

and thanks to you, 

know ocean and garden beauty

far beyond my daily view.

 

© by Charlotte Mandel.

Used with the author’s permission.