B-Gulf

Shoulder to shoulder,
In a rough surf, they ride
A yellow raft,
My Mother and Father.

At the first drops
Of the storm, their faces
Side by side,
They're slow to move.

Legs trailing, now
Propelled, now withdrawn,
They re-appear
Each time farther out.

The rhythm of the sea--
I complain it's pulling me
Down--the rhythm
Is my parents' own.

Hugging the raft,
They wear the distant smile
Of those quietly
Listening at a shell.