Some mornings pray themselves open.
I skirt the shoreline, weaving with the tide,
my pockets heavy
with rocks and shells, ancient
litter, evidence of a life
lived at the edges of things. Some pieces
are only ever
broken, bone pores gritted
with mica, the wave-smoothed rift
and algal stain. This sand-
dollar fragment chips from its star-whorl,
vulnerable there, where beauty
meets function meets beauty. I press a hand against
my own center, feel
the seam where waves would crack me. In such a vast
calcifying tumbler, who could keep
what’s necessary? I let silt and
silver wash through my foothold. Finger
the grit. Let the tide, as it
will, draw in.
This poem appeared in Rock & Sling.