Saturday Make-up

If I lived on Baker Island, it would be

Old beacon on Baker Island

just after midnight, and perhaps I'd be forgiven
for the lateness of my poem. We were sitting
by a campfire swapping stories with the
seabirds, drinking wine and roasting fish
and time just slipped away. But no one
lives on Baker Island but the ghosts of
those who sleep beneath the sandy soil
that, in turn, softens the coral corpses
floating in Pacific waters until the trumpet blows.
I'll bet it's quiet there. I'd like to visit there,
but not with rangers and such who make
a mandatory stop just now and then,
but with someone who'd marvel at the
blueness of the water and the sky and
help me pitch the tent, content to
be alone out there, the drama of the
world too far away to touch us. We could
catalogue the birds and crabs and
read poetry aloud beside a fire at midnight,
under stars so close we'd be amazed
and gasp as one wrenches free from
the heavens and falls into the sea
so close we see the ripples, hear the splash.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014

Where did Saturday, Jan. 18, go? I woke up realizing I'd completely forgotten it. So today I will write two.