Monday, August 12, 2013

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.