Leaving the ocean late in the day, a day of cloud and fog, the sun shines through breaks in the fog-cover in isolated rays, turning the surface of the water silver, shimmery. Silverleaf like goldleaf, if there were such a thing. A trove of silver which could buy something infinitely precious, but the silvered water itself is that, is all that I would want, not something lesser in exchange for the greater. The ever vanishing mirage of silver coins dissolved into and then held there suspended in their proper element. Quicksilver. The travels of the god between realms, messenger and god of boundaries, divination, thieves. I see why coins were slipped into the mouth to assure the dead passage across the River Styx, sustenance for the final journey. Transportation of a kind—like "transported with joy."
The idea of giving back again always, instead of taking, this immense treasure, reminds me of this smaller, yet no less significant moment or gift.
In Jane Hirshfield's recent poem, "Love in August," a moth at the door is described as
of a thief
who wants to put
back in your cupboard
the long-taken silver."
images: Bokeh soft focus water reflections (stock photo)