Sea glass (poem)

In a dried jumble there in the pottery bowl on the mantle yes I agree it doesn’t look like all that much no.  But the frosted whites browns that rare pale blue eponymous bottle green they are all there.  In all their ragged smooth uneven edges and lumps tumbled and formed such as they are in the tumult and sea toss they are representative forms opaque now as they may be.  Yes they are pretty have some utility even since the vogue is to make them into jewelry and keychains and sell them in stores and online now that they’re rare and people have more care with their trash or maybe there are just more plastic containers to drink from but in any event they can dangle from ears and decorate necks and sit in living room bowls and remind.

Do you remember the thrill of discovery of beachcombing when you were very young when you first caught that shining translucent glint of color?  It transformed the beach transformed the day and you’d hold it up to the sun to look through the jagged or smooth-edged piece and into the sun the only time that you could because parents said not to look at it straight on but through sea glass colored and filtered the sunlight it was gorgeous translated and true even with the sand gritty on the glass the light shone and it was something lo to behold a wonder in a small glint of glass and the sharp bits the glass that wasn’t yet seasoned and was still mostly trash sharp and not smooth enough to be mostly treasure well you had the choice and could throw it back and smile as you curled the other pieces damp in your palm to take home and wonder.  Maybe you’d find that same piece on some other walk and maybe you wouldn’t on that same beach or maybe some other but the waves at your feet that made your toes cold and the heat on the back of your neck and the sun through the clear colored sea glass that was always yours to remember and you dwelt in possibility then and had the choice to send that scrap piece back and let it become something else belong to somebody else because it wasn’t the right fit for you.

Will you run the uneven clouded lumps in the bowl under the water that comes out of the sink and hold them up to the window where the winter sunshine comes in?  Will the faucet sound not like the kitchen but like the ocean soothing with its roaring susurrus?  Will you recall that things change in this life often unrecognizably from the thing they first were and yet will you still recall that doesn’t mean they aren’t still pretty still useful still worthy even if only to serve as an aide-memoire?


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