Mothers In Maine

We went to the beach in May
before the crowds
with fried dough
and suntan oil had rented out
the silent cottages.

Last week’s storm
had run away
leaving treasure piles
Of sanded sticks and
stones,

with now and then
a bleached shoe or can
to mark the ocean’s
moon pulled crescent
and retreat.

I lay upon the
sandy shore
face to sky
with jacket wrapped
around me tight,

and felt the fingers of the wind
reach out and search
my clothes and skin
Wondering if
I might have been.

Despite the chill,
beneath me spread
the warmth of sun
escaping from a million
sandy prisons,

reminding me
the wind might find
me gone someday,
but not today
espeically not today.

My daughter came to find me,
with her little one enwombed
and full of promise,
neither one
a bird peep making.

We watched her mother
go and stop
examining each stick and rock
collecting things to give away
or to display.

She could not rest
from finding
a rock to please,
or stick for smoothing out,
a grandchild’s dream.

Tiny waves
licked at the beach
in their hurry
free from worry
as is their springtime pattern.

Daddio