The Race of the Sandpipers

 The Race of the Sandpipers

 

Along the shore line with sand packed hard

from the gusting onshore winds,

with the eternal history of gales

churning

up detritus.

 My eyes seek out beach glass

 rough jewels of ocean,

samples of destruction and recreation.

The sandpipers dart at lightning speed

 as chipmunks would in my garden

escaping the wave surge, as in a frantic game of tag.

The sun is setting, the tide is ebbing,

as the moon plays nocturnal games of tug of war

with the oceans.

I could walk to the horizon.

The sea glass serves no purpose,

I place the opaque pieces in a jar

in their collective they add beauty

like a church window,

as light and divinity shine through raising the spirits.

My daughter, as a child, collected such pieces,

proudly showing me.

She too collected them in a jar she placed by her bed.

We don’t speak any more.

Maybe the beach-glass-jars bind us is spirit

Like the moon embraces the oceans

during the race of the sandpipers.