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Poem

Once again, I've spent my day
drifting among the drifting dunes
staring at colorful bits of ocean-tumbled glass
that shimmer, sparkle
and refract the still-warm October light
in my shaking uncertain hand
as though I was looking
into my very own past and future
at the same time
that was made from pieces like these,
pieces of joy, heartache, happiness
and little shards of leftover sorrow
that had repeatedly washed ashore
over a lifetime of trying to recall
everything that ever mattered.
And the gulls know,
for they know everything and see everything 
from their airborne perch and they, no doubt,
know everything about this drifting drifter 
now settled snug and secure
in the side of an ever-changing dune,
my wind-shifted haven for this wanderer
who comes here every day
scouring the beach and scouring the soul
for blue, green, frosted and amber gems
loosened from Neptune's necklace
hidden amid stranded seaweed and the twisted wood
of abandoned piers and long-sunken boats
that have been worn down in the dark briny depths
into otherworldly sculpted creatures
along this deserted beach of my sun-faded childhood.
What is it about sea glass and sand dunes
I ask myself and any passing stranger
who also believes in salt-laden breezes,
rock jetties, lighthouses, 
old fishing nets, tarnished brass lanterns,
rain-soaked Saturdays
and the bellowing of unseen foghorns?
I quietly put my fragmented multicolored amulets
in my pocket and begin the walk home
amid patches of beach grass and goldenrod
to the endless sound of icy-gray waves
and the cries of my friends the gulls
who know I will be back another day
to drift and to ponder and to search 
for even more sea glass and sand dunes
once again.

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