Collecting

Speckled rocks, perfect eggs
of silver slate blue,

Striations deep and white,

Wrapped round and threaded through.

Chalk white shells
Cradle the sand,

Fragile and lonely,
Like a vacant bed.

Still the music of life
Has a harmony;
Pitch perfect,

Like the earthy smell
of a newborn’s head.

Memories are collected

Like finds in the attic,

Pinstriped suits, ostrich feathers,
Felt hats of downy grey.

One would think you’d uncovered
Great-grandma’s platinum ring

Instead of old songbooks

Oddly stirring your need to sing

Moved, you drop everything;

Behold the day

There are instruments of life
you have yet to play.

Smather your dusty face with white cream,
Inclinations say invite no one;

That could possibly rattle
the softness of your dream.

You pedal off on your bike,
Just to feel the wind on your hands,

Like a child you’ve pocketed
A lucky vile of sand;

Saved from the beach

Where you learned how to pray

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