A dead boat lay solemnly upon white sand
too far from the turquoise water shoreline
at the border of impenetrable Mexican jungle
where Mayans and jaguars once held court.
Hemingway knew he should die in 1961
when there were no more stories to tell,
when everything became too hard to say,
when fiction had become too real to write.
A tall woman in a shimmering white dress
that glistened like scales on a silvery fish
arose from the sea sliding slowly to shore,
she more for living on land than in sea.
A lone red buoy bobbed in a gentle swell
witness that all had been finally resolved.