L is for . . .

The sun shone yesterday, and the air was sweet, 

so we traveled the old road

of salt marshes and blueberry patches 

to my childhood beach;

the beach where we played in the surf 

until, even in August, our skin was red 

from the ice-cold, pounding waves;

the beach where my father dove in,

fully clothed, to save me from the undertow

when I was five (for years after he held on

to the salt-stained leather belt

that he'd worn that day); 

the beach where we built sandcastles and forts,

where we scrambled over granite rocks,

fed french fries to greedy sea gulls,

and drank grape Shasta from cans.

This is love, revisiting a place

that shaped you

in the best ways, a place

where danger and comfort

are intertwined, 

where ever scrub pine

whispers the past,

where when your love takes your hand,

you hold fast--

not from fear--

but from the sense 

that in the space between your palms

lie the answers

to all the questions

you could ever ask.

Todd's Point, Reid State Park, Georgetown, Maine