Pawcatuck, Connecticut coast in March.
The sea almost frozen in time—a wave
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