Gathering

Early morning early spring on
Duxbury Beach: we sweatered few
bend to the task, finding
the perfect rock, begin the

weigh, discard,
wait to be called,
listen for magic.
On shelled beaches, too,

we search for the unbroken
clam or whelk, fingernail pink, white,
craggy grey, the recent confidante
of tides.

We add it to the bowl, the small
assortment on the desk and soon
we cannot tell which one
was Normandy, Nantucket,

Kiawah, Carmel, which
was from snorkeling, first baby’s
first umbrella’d beach, vacation
afterwards alone.

Closing the apartment of my
last, my favorite aunt, I found
her treasure rocks and shells
in bowls, on windowsills,

their histories of where and
when and how now
melted into
ground and air.

I brought them on the day we
gathered at her stone. We each
chose one to leave and one to
slip into a pocket, carry home.

Read more poems here.