High tide erases foot prints
from the gray sand. I know
they are yours. You left
at low tide before the sun
painted the clouds pink.
Now, I sit above the tidal line,
watch a coquina feed,
washed up into the open,
it vanishes as the wave recedes
until eaten by the willet
that dug into its burrow.
Pushing past the breakers
that shove me into the sand,
the undertow swallows me.
Salt water stings my lungs,
I don’t struggle against
the waves’ suction.
I invite the shark
to return my blood
to the sea.
Crosswinds poetry Journal
High tide erases foot prints
from the gray sand. I know
they are yours. You left
at low tide before the sun
painted the clouds pink.
Now, I sit above the tidal line,
watch a coquina feed,
washed up into the open,
it vanishes as the wave recedes
until eaten by the willet
that dug into its burrow.
Pushing past the breakers
that shove me into the sand,
the undertow swallows me.
Salt water stings my lungs,
I don’t struggle against
the waves’ suction.
I invite the shark
to return my blood
to the sea.
Crosswinds poetry Journal
Spring 2018
Spring 2018
High tide erases foot prints
from the gray sand. I know
they are yours. You left
at low tide before the sun
painted the clouds pink.
Now, I sit above the tidal line,
watch a coquina feed,
washed up into the open,
it vanishes as the wave recedes
until eaten by the willet
that dug into its burrow.
Pushing past the breakers
that shove me into the sand,
the undertow swallows me.
Salt water stings my lungs,
I don’t struggle against
the waves’ suction.
I invite the shark
to return my blood
to the sea.
Crosswinds poetry Journal
Spring 2018
Spring 2018
