In the best of times and in the worst,
she goes to the edge of the sea. A dot
in the universe; a speck of sand: she
is connected with all that came before,
with all that is yet to be. Rocked gently
in the sea’s cradle, she feels her grayness
slip away. Azure smells, shiny stones,
bits of polished glass, scattered seaweeds.
Shells all around: deserted homes left
behind for her to touch. To be thunderstruck
by their beauty. She sighs and slips a
jingle shell in her pocket. To remember.
When she can not be near the edge of the sea.
– Eileen Crowell, 1997
