I wrote a poem.
TOURIST LOVE At dusk as I tiptoed along the Shore Path, Between tourists grumbling about fog and the price of lobster, Listening to the sound of whaler motors humming out existence, I fell in love with a rose bush. Not the cultivated kind, but the stubborn ones that cling to sea walls, Bees fluttering about, wild and limby, stabbing at passersby, Bright pink and white blooms, calling you in Without asking for anything back. Just existing. No worries. It knows it has survived drought and hurricane winds. It knows it will survive those things again. It knows it might be noticed or not. It doesn’t matter. In the bright morning light, the fog eventually cleared, And I feel in love with two kids who wandered off the path To push at a precociously balanced rock, thinking somehow They’d knock that giant boulder into the sea Even though a zillion others had tried before, hands flat Against granite, legs braced, putting all their weight into it. This is the sweetest kind of belief, of love, that love of self, Not worried about what others think as you push and push and push.