At their usual spot,
the point at Refugio,
the surf was flat,
so they boogied down
in the cove,
the fronds of the palms
fat and glassy green,
the rocks at the edge
smooth with rust moss hair,
the nose of his board
thrust up and curling
and curling in the blue
air of smiling swells,
but still the waves
would not break
into hysterical laughter:
“There are no trees
on the sea,” she said,
holding a cream white
pink mophead hydrangea.
“You look for shade
under the cool curl,”
he said, recalling their first
time – as soon as he stood
he wiped out,
his board pushed in
with the soupy surf,
he wore no leash,
paddled out again,
and she lotioned in the sand.
The Coming of the Toads 