Here, in this city on the bay,

the Pacific has wanderlust.

It rises, becomes air,

becomes cloud, saturating

my skin with salty mist.

I breathe fog, and watch

as it floats across waves,

climbs cliffs along the rocky

coast, hovers over rounded

Cyprus trees—immersing

everything in a particular

shade of grayed green.

 

I wonder if these ribbons

of fog are merely lost

or fallen clouds, awakening

to solid ground instead of sky.

Or maybe—like the ocean—

they are free spirits, choosing

a new journey, wisps of ocean-

cloud woven with laughter,

rolling softly in a playful dance

between earth and sky,

where sea becomes air.

 

Cynthia J. Lee

Where Sea Becomes Air (24 x 24, Oil, cold wax pastels on wood panel)