Jilda and I spent New Year's Eve 1999
at the beach with friends.
A storm before midnight sent
torrents of vertical rain that lashed the windows.
Palmetto and palms gyrated in the wind
and scratched the side of the house
as if they wanted inside.
The power winked out.
We toasted the New Year by candlelight.
The next day, the tide was angry.
On our morning stroll,
we picked up bushels of shells.
It was a remarkable time.
There's one of those conch shells on my nightstand
when I miss the sea,
I can pick up that shell and listen.
