A TOE KISS FOR MONTANA

 

I can tell,

she's ready to give up the natural beauty

that she grew up with back in Montana—for this.

 

I don't want her to stay—here,

but I can't say I'd blame her if she did.

 

The force at her feet is hard to resist.

 

You look out on that shell of salt water

and suddenly a wave pops up,

the wave spots you sitting there on the beach

and begins waving at you like only a wave can.

 

It's happy to see you.

And the closer it gets the more ecstatic it becomes.

 

It's so delirious with joy it forgets about what it's doing

and can only think about rushing to see you,

to embrace you and splash you with love like a watery dog.

 

And then it trips, falls, and breaks its backbone.

But that doesn't stop it.

 

That wave stretches out and keeps on sliding up the beach

with sheer determination

until there's nothing left of the wave but its lips,

which with one final pucker reach out and kiss your toes

before collapsing back into that overcrowded, impersonal sea.

 

And it's worth it—worth a wave's lifetime—for a toe kiss.