[On ‘The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls’ by H.W. Longfellow]
The warm tide rises,
Rinsing the sands with foam, like soap
Promising to wash out the hope-
Ore glinting in the rocks.
The foam capsizes,
And squirming feet learn: the cold sea
Has sent more of its gnarled debris
To hunt skin without socks.
The wind surprises
Itself, lends fresh love to the toes
Worming their way through seashell-foes,
And cold flint stumbling blocks.