Peering down through the water
past variations of deep green, golden,
olive, mocha, teal and silvery seaweed,
undulating movements detected far below.
Curiosity in check, attention diverted
to ever growing lines of people forming
for whale-watching tours,
lighthouse trips on double-decker boats,
and anxious honeymooners, listening
to waves sloshing against dock pilings,
impatiently waiting for a sunset cruise in Maine.
“How deep is the water here?”…one asks,
pulling fresh saltwater taffy from their teeth
as they stand on the weathered dock.
A precise answer would take too long,
offer more details than expected,
impart more information than
a passing curiosity warrants.
The answer, “You just can’t get there from here.
The bottom is farther than a person
could swim without an air tank or gills,
more icy than bare skin could withstand,
darker than the inside of those caves
way up on the cliffs across the bay.”
A fish-finder, chart, sonar,
or sounding device
would calculate precise readings
of water depth in mathematical terms.
Will those statistics offer
a clear vision, a sensation
of what it feels like to experience
icy underwater depth,
or feel the panic
of crushing water pressure,
to realize the sensation
of burning saltwater
filling ones lungs?
Taking a deep breath,
catching my reflection in the surface,
drowning in intense thoughts
I imagine – probably not,
those thoughts remain
buried incredibly deep.