What We Hold On To
Dungeness Spit, Washington
The road gathers the fields, harvesting them with each turn.
A barn with silver silos crests the green horizon.
The houses, whose gardens snap sunflowers, rhubarb,
lettuce and stunted corn are the dream
we each harbor in the folded wing of our palm.
We stem from forest trail to the beach,
skid the sand between our toes,
feel the smooth circles of stone beneath our feet.
This spit is the crooked finger calling the ocean home,
the arm holding our family together.
We sleep on the driftwood,
eat cheese and sausage on Russian rye,
search for agates like four-leaf clovers.
The wind is not enough to unbalance the cranes from their post,
not enough to push us further down the spit to the lighthouse.
This poem was written eons ago. I held onto for decades and then it felt right to send it to the Washington State Poet Laureate's call for poems. It memorializes a special moment before our family scattered one by one off to adulthood.
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