The Iceberg

Waiting, no … languishing on the beach

My gaze is towards the town, replete with sounds and smells of summer hustle and bustle.

Then suddenly, a shout comes from afar.

“Get the camera! … Can’t you see the iceberg?”


A short turn of the head and sure as eggs, she stands there magnificent,

Breaking the summer New England landscape with glorious colors.

Purples, azure blues, frosty whites, all fitted perfectly into their suits,

Those crevices, sharpened as if by chisels of an artist, escaped from all prior shackles. Beauty is blue.


“Go get the camera now”, repeats the messenger, with more urgency.

Running to the bag, wondering if I have the right lens on,

But more concerned about the growing butterflies in my stomach,

For my witness of this beautiful, freak of nature. Solitude and wonder envelop me.


Automatically, images are swallowed by a hungry sensor,

Colors, shapes, waves breaking, the pictures keep coming.

Transfixed, but yet moving, I find new positions for what must have been an age.

Until awoken by a wetness, now knee deep, the tide and nature talk to me.

I have enough pictures now.


Now satisfied, drenched and full of consolation, I see the car.

Still parked on the beach, now waist deep in water,

Awaiting patiently for me where I left her earlier. On the sand.


But I have the pictures.  And inner peace.

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