Brushing The Stars

Shimmering winter back in Redondo,
frost shadow thawed, unmoored offshore,
I cloudwalk on a pair of bouncy new sneakers.
As our sun emerges from the mist, it squints my eyes,
turns crystal into ocean turquoise twilight pink.

Below on the Esplanade trudges a family
whose young lead their matriarch’s Guatemalan
rainbow skirt and blouse. The ten-gallon mustachioed
silent screen patriarch tucks a pearl snap cowboy
shirt over the horizon of his jeans’ paunch.

Beauties in saris bloom like tidepool moon gardens.