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Poem
As I sit at my table
Overlooking the sea
I try not to look for its unforgiving blueness
it is too much for my heart.
My heart which is once again, empty.

Loss has followed my heels 
for many years and
it follows me still.
As surely as the waves
flow in and out again with the ebb tide.

No more shall I look at the mountains
their tips frosted with white surely, and
no more the shells that I so carefully
collected with my most secret self
the part that was my own
which I let be exposed for a small time...
Came out into the shooting star sun
with the driftwood 
even the grayness,
the light rain...

I picked them up
held them tight 
took them home with me
each an expression of something radiant
and decorated the deck with their unique beauty
Arranged them in a way which said most eloquently
Here I am ...
here are the parts of me for the world to sea
for a while until sure as the water flows

It was asked of my heart
to toss them back
and so I did.  Into the greenish dryness, I tossed them
Not where they go at all, it was wrong
but into the thick brownish cover of trees
for there were far too many of my shells by then

They were too heavy
they had become just a burden.
The very action itself left a scar on my heart
that could not easily be fixed nor would it ever
but it must be done

Always in the past when asked
to do something
that felt a trespass against my soul,
an action which hurt so very much
and went against 
rather than with my own tide...
meant something was coming which
would surely damage me

A storm 
which would rage and which would tear pieces of me apart
The shells were just fragments of myself anyway
but the innermost fragments of myself
which I had collected when I felt like sharing
at times when I sparkled even on gray days

In the glittering sun
In the light gray rain
but sure as the ebb tide brought them in
they would go out again
maybe not as I would have liked
but broken and damaged.
Surely as I had brought them in from the beach
they could not stay
as my heart, 
dark and riddled with loss
must have its due

as I sit at this table
alone 
and yet unable to look at the water
not to look at the mountains
and not to hear the birds sing
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