Monday, April 18, 2011


By Molly Blaisdell

The edge of the sea.
Pounding surf. Brown. Gray.
Turbid waters.
Foam arching in a steady wind.

My name loses meaning here.
I still exist. I still stand.
A sentinel—but not stone cold.
I stand at the edge of the sea. I
have felt the erosion.
The wounds of time.

I’m walking now.
Searching for stones.
A striped one, yellows, golds,
shiny blacks chestnuts,
flecked granites.

My pockets should be full,
but the stones
tore my pocket
and slipped away
-- falling.
Driven into the sands of centuries.

These stones were never mine.
I called them mine,
but they were never mine.

They belong to the sea.

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