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Poem: The Sea Washes Up


Pawcatuck, Connecticut coast in March.
The sea almost frozen in time—a wave
Looming before
My last conversation with you.

High tide unveiling, offering up
The fragments of its lowest point
A green salad of bottle shards and kelp,
Dressed with the lick of salt known to mankind:

The kind that stings,
The kind where mothers say, “Watch for the pin bones;
They’ll prick you when you least expect.”
The kind like walking on eggshells.

I enter, feet bare, where I don’t yet belong,
The off-season water clear, unsoiled
Before our last wash-up.

Sooner or later you’ll find,
When you least expect it,
The sea washes everything
Back up again.

Image Credits: Photo courtesy of Shutterstock

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