Waking Up, Victoria, B. C., 1966
our toes in the wet sand
all sound above us
at our feet
and beyond into the sea
soft thunder splash of breakers
afternoon tide rolling in
already to our ankles and knees
the beach golden-light, breezy
hair strands
mixing with sand and clothes
no one around
but you, my musician friend
sound asleep too
we scurried to the street
to the apartment
back to the festival where you
were opening for the Dead
not much to carry
no beach ware or bottles of this
or that, no food but
what the Canadian host would give us
always we lived on trust
and the forward thrust of time
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