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On the San Mateo Bridge

August 6, 2009

The San Mateo Bridge rides green waves in the sunlight, teasing splashes of sea foam with its unwavering path.   When I travel the causeway, I am walking on water;  a god to the fishes, a child of the sea.  Salt water is my make up, is my life force, is my being.  The Pacific writes on my remaining breath; another sixty years, more maybe less.  Who counts these things, who answers to the ocean?  We all will return there and wash up on the shore.  On the bridge I am brave, unafraid of the water, of a lonely death, of my own mortality.

Eroding the bridge is the bay of Saint Francis, who believed without seeing the feet of his Christ.  See my feet, Francis.  Believe in me.   My soles are cracked and callused with a journey too long and I know where you’ve been, cloistered and faithful.  I have trouble believing in what I know to exist but I’ve hung onto these dreams, held fast to the truth.  It changes, refracts like light off the water.  It breaks, it is repaired.  It gives birth to itself.

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