Erratica

After the yielding winter storm has gone
far out to sea, Maira wanders the shore
to look for seashells. There's no comparison
to such a day; there's such plenty to explore.
She shoulders her bag to liberate her stride,
and gracefully canvasses the tidal zone
for scallops, lightning whelks, and spirals beside
a swell of seaweed. She reaps what waves have sown.
And not the sound ones only that stayed intact,
but also the shards, the rough variety
that on the calmest of days would not attract
a single taker. This is no mystery:
she strings them into artless necklaces,
irregular, but flawless nonetheless.



copyright 2002 Gregory Perry