The Indian Tribes Never Imagined Apollo and Artemis
The dry dune grass that grows along this beach,
Brevard’s broad beaches, waves in salt-wind breeze
Like gods with brush wind movements as they reach
To dream of sky. They dream of shores on seas,
On distant seas, where storms are never hard.
No hurricanes coming crashing on the sands
And nothing untoward can leave grass marred
And no divinities forsake those strands.
The grasses here bow slightly like blond slaves
Unwilling. Grass heads stoop to fight their fate.
The blonder sand accepts the grasses’ waves
Ignoring all their inexpressive hate.
And nothing happens here or near this dune
Except the long-lost missiles to the moon.
~ Phillip Whidden