Post by David Nelson Bradsher on Oct 4, 2009 11:06:01 GMT -5
Aftermath
We strolled through rain and cold on planks that spanned
a field of sea oats waving to the beach,
where, in the threadbare light, we mined the strand
for all the shells and memories we could carry,
a plastic bucket and our thoughts for each
to help retrieve what sand or time would bury.
The shells we craved were scarce; an autumn storm
the night before had washed up jellyfish,
daggers of driftwood larger than the norm,
and the harsh truth that what is left behind
is often the detritus of a wish
that dies when nothing good is left to find.
David Nelson Bradsher
We strolled through rain and cold on planks that spanned
a field of sea oats waving to the beach,
where, in the threadbare light, we mined the strand
for all the shells and memories we could carry,
a plastic bucket and our thoughts for each
to help retrieve what sand or time would bury.
The shells we craved were scarce; an autumn storm
the night before had washed up jellyfish,
daggers of driftwood larger than the norm,
and the harsh truth that what is left behind
is often the detritus of a wish
that dies when nothing good is left to find.
David Nelson Bradsher
