Salty froth bubbles
between our splayed toes.
The wet flaxen shore
reflects a warm dawn
as citrus clouds blot
the vast and
endless sky—
though the earth here
keeps on turning,
this place feels
fixed in time.
Returning after years
of seasons come
and gone,
returning after losing
loved ones who’ve
moved on
to that damp
and unthinkable
hollow
in the ground.
Around
and around
and around
we go.
But here,
in the balmy breeze
above the undertow—
listening to that
abiding rush back
and crash
of ocean furls—
nothing has changed,
and I’m that same little girl—
with pink shoulders,
much to lose,
and a world
to explore.
pm poetry 