Home/On the Seashore

The light-shot swells of tide do not move her,

Though others around her

Splash into the surf,

Or prostrate themselves on the sand

To gaze.

If not for them,

She would have turned back already,

But she forces herself to stay,

To wander

Along the shore, across the dunes,

Envisioning tall, dark evergreens

Bearded with hanging moss,

And dreaming of shadowed ferns,

Laden with fresh-formed dew.

“The forest is my home,”

She murmurs,

“And I cannot comprehend

This treeless expanse.”

She finds that the whoosh

Of crashing waves

Does not inspire the calm

She feels

From wind through curving branches,

And even as she dreams of home,

She cannot rid herself

Of the grating texture

Of sand in socks.

Those light-shot swells

Burn her eyes,

So accustomed to forest shadow.

And she wanders, gaze lowered

Unmoved, except by memory.

First line from Linda Gregerson's "Cranes on the Seashore"