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.