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Survivors




Some storms roll in
like pewter waves,
spurred by dream fragments
or a ripping of melody.

So swift, they yank the tide
from ankle kissed foam
to a green-fingered despair,
grasping even to the hip.

Such squalls can catch the wader up;
toss them high upon a shipwreck’s arc,
drag them lone and low
beneath an undertow’s heel.

Some, dawn will roll sandward again,
melting blue from lips and deeper places;
leaving them shaped and shaken
but grateful for each brackish breath


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