One From the Other

There is nothing remarkable about them,
these grey stones at the end of the land,
no inate beauty. They are rough and unphotogenic,
No one has even bothered to carve graffitti into them.
At high tide they seem to float above the water.
At low tide, they stand a few feet high.
Mostly dry except for the summer storms
that have waves lashing over them,
only to dry again. Nothing remarkable.
Even the seagulls seem to ignore them.

Nothing remarkable except for this.
They stand. Firm. Survivors,
a place that does not move in the midst of a sea
that always does. A thing worth celebrating,
that consistency, that strength. A thing
worth emulating.

I am not sure whether I have, or not.
Parts of me remain above water,
parts of me have washed away.
I am stone and silt and the few who
have watched time and storms
and paid attention to what is left
can tell one from the other.

About this poem

So much change in a life. But the things that remain have value. I hope.

The picture was taken in Rhode Island.

Tom