When the water glints like onyx
shushing the dock, empty
sailboats huddle and rock,
when a red-winged
blackbird tricks us
with its flare of dahlia,
lavender sand dollar
washes ashore
unbroken, when
the amber moon swells,
catches us turned in
on our worry,
and the horizon
reveals a violet-
orange ribbon,
the electric blue plankton fill,
overfill with twilight,
minuscule radiant bodies
limn the black bay.
We gather
on the gritty deck.
Burdened by our hidden
unkindnesses, we turn
our eyes toward illumination.
January Pearson lives in Southern California with her husband and two daughters. She teaches in the English department at Purdue Global University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Notre Dame Review, Rust + Moth, Atlanta Review, Rayleigh Review, Borderlands, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, The American Journal of Poetry, The Cape Rock Review, and other places.