I had everything I wanted except the end of wanting.

A small desk fit beneath the window

of the room I’d rented and through the pane

I watched the wind bend fir trees,

build hills on the sea.

I wanted my life to be small and here it was.

I dragged kelp from the stone beach

around the point and laid it on the beds

of the neglected garden. The peony stems

grew thicker. I pickled squash blossoms.

Some nights I stretched out on the boulders

still warm from the day’s heat and listened

to the sea draw low sounds from its darkness.

Days passed. Simple words. The sounds of rain.

I tended to no one. Wrote no letters.

I ate little, gave my suits away.

Lighter, I swam the cold sea.

The current towed me south

at the same speed the clouds

drifted east through the sky.

Out past the break,

I wanted the quiet to be quieter.

When the shore drew near,

I wanted it farther.