Here along the edge of the Delaware, inverted reflections of Olympia and Moshulu get transformed in this basin. Suggestions of past and future lurk there too.
await discovery . . . along with other surprises, be they finny, spiny, toothy, and slimy.
Trailing edge of continent or leading edge of ocean, or both, extend without clear definition, like the
What’s visible today wasn’t yesterday or won’t be tomorrow; when new vistas appear, they surprise us with
unexpected edges of propinquity.
Edge of darkness, chaos, or creation . . .
and then not, if
you brave the edge of dawn, of wonder, and find the way to your conveyance. Some edges suffice for one environment, whereas
another more buffered suit another.
This single exposure . . . . of bowsprite’s not-for-navigation chart above my desk drew me into the edge of unreality thanks to the apparition of a curvedness of mermaids speaking to a diver.
Edge of another year . . . season.
A thought from Anne Morrow Lindberg about some of the edges above: “The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach – waiting for a gift from the sea.”
A cold day’s sizzling thought from Molly M: “I respect boundaries,” she said, “vigilantly. And I love to play right up to the edge of them, see how close I can get.” She smiled, slyly, like one who could never drown. Edges. Places where one thing stops being itself and becomes something else. Places where one thing washes over another and changes it. Edges, where you can fall over, tumble in, be washed away. Hard edges that cut. Soft edges that overlap and enfold. Permeable boundaries that let me flow into you and let you flow into me. Impenetrable borders that keep us apart.”