Let me rest by these waters
stirred to turquoise.

Where no waves foment
and no foam smashes the shore.

No wide-brimmed voices, no loud umbrellas.

The autumn water is warm.

Pebbles chafe the soles of my feet.

I sink into the brine, tread with deep breath,
splash out as salty as the lung-gilled fish
that first flopped onto land.

My wrinkles are legion.

I sit in the shade of boulders
away from the sun
that coarsens my pores.

Back when you called me Piccola
we drank the sun, and flasks of wine
thinned with water. My thighs and legs
lay over yours, my back braced
against your soft-haired chest.

Leathery fingers combed my long hair.

You ferried me over this sand,
dunked me in this sea, with my legs
circling your waist, my arms around your neck.
I, wet otter, your white beard brushing my face.

We lay wrapped in a worn blanket.

We slept, no sounds but the laugh
of the black faced gulls,
and descending screams of the least terns
bridling to fly south.