They are always with us, the small, thin children,
And the meager, old folks from a bygone era;
Like celluloid film graying on a big screen. They
Would say we are only a movie headline,
A time gone, a time forgotten. Walking
About on their stalky legs over the mud huts
Of tiny crabs, empty of complaints, wading through
The skin of waves deposited on the shoreline.
Small, thin children persist with sandcastles and the
Thin-lipped sea; bastions against the plump bellies
Of breakers. I can smell the salt at my feet, sowing
The earth like a spectacled farmer. My hat brim
Deflects a brisk wind and a brief summer shower.
And we picnic listening to the pulse of water
Bleached under a hot August sun. Whatever I see,
I think it is a part of my heart, how generous a life.
The world comes clear and fills it with magical colors,
Unmisted by flickers of dark, lit by candles of hope.
Copyright © 08/05/18 lance sheridan®