Leavings of the Tide
Look below, at your feet,
at the leavings of the tide,
a new tableau with each coming and going,
each one with new life, new treasures, new death
There are no straight lines in nature,
everywhere there is texture and torn places,
erosion and the soft curve of tides and seasons
that come and go.
To pretend otherwise is a lie, or pride
of the worst kind.
So find your treasures now.
Open your eyes and see
For they may be gone on the morrow.
And should the sand beneath your feet
harbor briars, skeletons, and dead fish,
rest easy. The tide will turn.
Yes, the tide will turn.
About this poem
Still making sense of the elections (emotionally). And of all the emotion still flying about. To make sense of it, I have been remembering the tides of my own life, high and low.
Yes, it helps.