Visitation

I watch the evening light,
hazy with sea mist,
stretch and fade
in the naked branches
of the little manzanita
standing over the sidewalk.

A smell of lavender passes on the wind.
It seems unaccountable,
without origin in that dusky place.
The branches tremble.
My hand rises,
lifting as of its own accord,
as if to catch the wind by its tail,
catch and hold it close,
but I can’t, I cannot catch it,
cannot hold it close,
squeezing it wildly against my breast
like a sudden heirloom,
like something lost
unexpectedly found,
though I try—

I reach,
I grasp—
it slips away.

© Michael Pielaet-Strayer

Michael Pielaet-Strayer is a writer living in Monterey, California. Most recently his work has appeared in Aethlon: the Journal of Sports Literature, Twisted Vine Literary Arts Journal, and The Loch Raven Review.

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