What Matters

What Matters

 

That on a morning the color of oyster shell,

the grassy river bank

lies mirrored in glassy flow.

 

As the river touches the sea,

we touch to make meaning.

 

If I had nothing, the poet said,

not keyboard nor pen nor paper,

I would write with a stick in the sand.

 

Though tides wash the marks away.

Because this is what I must do.

 

Beyond the river a sand spit

lettered with driftwood

Sea foam lifts.

 

Wave caresses sand

like a child the head of a favorite dog.

A gull circles and cries.

 

Hand imagines roundness of stick.

What matters is the making.

 

 

Maureen Eppstein

From the book "Rogue Wave At Glass Beach"

 

 

Done