Geysir Hot Spring Area, Haukadalur, Iceland
At Geysir, Earth’s breath fumed around me.
In Thórsmörk, Her arctic hand ran down my spine.
Earth is both
Fire and ice
And the sinuous path in between.
Brushstrokes of clouds and a hotspot where the sun glided behind the fog
The fog at the horizon is ready to swarm ashore.
It tarries and I steal some time with the cloud-marbled sky.
All that was white turned orange
The sun dips below the west with a fiery sigh.
The fog will soon erase colors and shapes.
But not yet.
Blue and orange still rule:
will only abdicate to the night.
A dark rock surrounded by ocean,
a bright rock surrounded by sky.
Satellite and stripes,
a palette painted for my eyes only.
Clouds painted wish short brushstrokes suspended over silently rolling fog.
Four minutes later.
The gondola promises a royal treatment for the duration of the tour,
the only boat that can make such promise.
It’s not the brocaded seat that attracts me,
but the long oar and its fulcrum, the forcola.
I have no desire to sit.
I want to stand and row.
The quiet beauty of an ordinary evening along the Northern California coast:
the ocean barely rippling,
strands of fog gingerly approaching,
a sliver of moon hanging in the pale sky.
It will soon bathe in the pewter water as darkness sets in.
In the liquid early morning light I say my farewell.
A cloud smiles at me luminously.
A shallow pool mirrors the brightening sky and my thought: ‘Till next time.
Luminous clouds over ominous horizon.
Light and darkness together in the sky,
each one beautiful in it own way.
The stark contrast softens somewhat as the sun sets.
A slice of blue sky balances between opposites.