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