The words of the unencumbered

The sea oats line the walkway back to the world.
Their smells are layered in the simplicity of salt air and the life of the unencumbered and the complexities of survival.
They blow against my arm alerting me to their existence, as if I needed a reminder.
Upon my return, the skies reflect the counterpart to the dunes as the sky has its horizon dotted with clouds and a backdrop of sun tinted pink canvas.  

 

Stepping onto the wooden walkway

I am mentally assaulted by words that compete for purchase on the open and empty slate

of my inner storyteller and writer.

 

 

 

Like errant children

they push their own agenda for attention

until I sort them into cohesive expressions.

 

 

 

 

Pick me

Pick me

Pick me

the words say

as they pop around my

brain like kernels in a pan of hot oil.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beach Grandma

When the weather warms the air enough

and the sun shines with such intensity that tomatoes taste like its yellow rays

I know that summer has arrived.

 

 

And with it

I am baptized again into every body of water I am near.

Like a mermaid

I will take up residence in its depths

and make the shore my bed.

 

 

I watch my grandchildren slip the surface to their own underwater

adventure so naturally that I wonder

if they remember the hidden world within their mothers.

 

 

Like my mother before me, I am

The Beach Grandma

and my magic is held in every diamond that glints on the water.