some times
on land, reality is fine edged and crisp,
but on an impulse to go on out to the beach
on a warm winter day,
I enter a mystery
of mist rising up from the sea
hovering over the land
reaching down from the sky
making the smallest
difference in color and shade
between land, air, sand, sea, and sky indistinguishable.
I have dreamed of this place.
Now I think I am walking
alone in the day on wet sand,
the sea as far out as it can go,
I will dream of this place again
at night.
I may be dreaming now.
Is sinew the only difference between
our walking waking and our haunted dreaming?
I am in a place of longing and regret-
a wide beach, those.
Boats clang and moan behind the curtain of mist
so close I could touch them;
a dog bounds up to me out of the cloud and pounces me
its lover,
I remember joy, pup; you know that me!
This life, so short, so lush,
so impersonal as to remind me
that my recurring hurtful thought of late
can be wound again and again
playing a song I don’t want to hear
until the fog, the sand, the fin skimming the line
between water and sand,
the light skimming the line
between dusk and night,
my mind skimming the line
between awake and dream
between alive and dead
between a life of thought
and a life of senses,
wakes me to know which to choose
even when I don’t know how.
Life as Improv 
A wonderful poem shared. Thank you.
So lovely to meet you on shore!
I wonder whether we would live clearer lives if we didn’t try to extend our vision so far. We seem to believe that we can reach what we see, however far, and even that we should. And we churn up and burn down so much ground trying to get there.