The rocks and sands of Monterey—
They
Nourished me
Beside the sea.
My age? It matters not—
It was enough to batter me a bit; I’ve got
My own credentials of what’s what.
The way my flattened trunk is worn
Shows well enough I was not born
Into this planet yesterday; whoever will
Can count my rings the day I fall—until
That time, the secret I have kept
Shall sleep as it has slept.
Had fate dealt otherwise, I might have been
Bestowed in safety with my kin
To landward there, a half-mile in—
Most orthodox and prim
In trunk and limb.
For such an orthodoxy, bah, who’d give
Two grains of sand—they do not live!
They’ve nothing to _combat_. I get
The first-hand give-and-take; the wet,
Flung spray, the savage shoulder-drive
Of unspent blasts—on these I thrive.
And then I watch—for me
The sweep of sea,
Unbroken, beautiful. I get the first
Of everything. I see the burst
Of evening clouds unrolled
Upon a palpitating field of gold.
Shot through with fiery javelins that dart
Up from the sun’s red heart.
So passes out my day. My night
Is moon and mist and light
Of stars—I keep
The sweep
Of sky and sea—
Which somehow seems all made for me.