Stepping

When I  stepped on sand and made my way
lightly down the shoreline
avoiding the rushing
waves
and occasional carcasses of  beached animal
gingerly holding
the enormity
of the element that sorrounded me
lulled into forgetfulness
by the wind and the sound
and the smell of ocean,
I could have accepted death with joy
if not for the hand that held the camera that day.

A lot of circling before declaring one's love.

My town in the rear-view mirror
and a major task
to get back to
as soon as the sun comes out
this rain stops
this knee heals
this shoulder stops twitching.

How I circle around what's really driving
me off
to and from
and in and out
of focus.
This is not fear, I declare
loudly.
I'm just praying to
an unknown deity
to give me strength
courage
and
that something else
I seem to lack
I seem not to know
enough words to name it properly.

How is it that we are afraid of so many things
we can't name?