Monday, May 26, 2014


You were sifting through
stones and sand and sea shells
as the sun set, rosy-hued and
baby blue, over the Chesapeake
bay, you told me the water looked
like velvet, and it did in a way,
there was a tree that had tumbled
from the cliff-side, had been worn
white and smooth by gentle waves,
stationary driftwood,
green algae goo hanging
from outstretched arms,
I stood on it's aged side,
tried to see what was beyond the
orange cliffs,
you found your fossils,
four of them, a gift for
your father, brother and me,
one for yourself,
I dropped them into my
shirt pocket for safe-keeping
and you held
onto my arm as we walked
back to the house (it was
getting too dark to see), pulling
on my sleeve,
thinking about sleep.

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