The shore stretches
end to iridescent end
like the inner lip
of an abalone shell.
Teal and aqua alternate
as waves wash ashore.
It’s miles down and back
so, my son and I muse
at the meaning of being
here, feet sunk in silken sand.
He shows me how silica suspended
rises and twists with each lap of sea,
makes a diamond pattern
a second before it settles.
On these sands, weʻve reached
the point where he teaches me…
Do you see it mom,
the fluviation of the alluvium?
And I think, yes, I see it.
I see how surely grains slip
through our narrowed glass,
how brief the moments
of meaning are. How against
the push and pull of our binding
and undoing, form never lasts.
And we walk on. We let the ocean
erase our steps.
Wendi White hails from the Adirondack Mountains but now muses among the geckos and ginger scented ridges of Oʻahu. She earned her MFA from Old Dominion University’s Creative Writing program in Virginia, and recently, her poetry was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. When not at her writing desk, she builds marsh mounds for the endangered Hawaiian Moorhen.
