Really desperate for ocean poetry today. Here’s another one from a friend that’s feeding my soul (oh, and fueling my hunger for some salty sea air), while remembering a night not too long ago, spent on the edge of bitumen cliffs, hearing the ocean call my name…
I go down to the edge of the sea.
How everything shines in the morning light.
The cusp of the whelk,
the broken cupboard of the clam,
the opened, blue mussels,
moon snails, pale pink and barnacle scarred —
and nothing at all whole or shut, but tattered, split,
dropped by the gulls onto the gray rocks and all the
It’s like a schoolhouse
of little words.
First you figure out what each one means by itself,
the jingle, the periwinkle, the scallop
full of moonlight.
Then you begin, slowly, to read the whole story.
~ Mary Oliver ~