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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4405 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Matapoisett Saturday Lisa Janice Cohen The boys scramble over whelk crusted rocks, splash through tide pools. They stalk translucent crabs, shout when silver small-fry dart past callused toes, dig beneath wet sand, paint freckled bodies thick with heavy clay. They chase reflections, churn the bottom murky, fling seaweed, scatter stones. In the shallows I stoop, retrieve a shell, sun-bleached, ordinary. I worry it in my hand. turn it over. An eye blinks at me, mother-of-pearl. My sons stand etched, tanned against turquoise. Wind gusts carry their laughter out to sea. Eddies form at my feet, shift sand. The pull of gravity buries jetties, turns islands into sea floor again. We build walls against the tide, try to hold our ground. Even when it's long past time to go home. |
