God, a sweet part of growing old is this —
I still walk the shoreline,
noticing every shell, much seaglass,
a pile of smelly seedweed,
abandoned plastic bucket,
bit of broken lobster trap,
but I am no longer disappointed
that my particular footprints
will wash away,
also my poems, and the memory
of how I brushed my hair —
those small things.
The tide ebbs and flows.
In some places the beach
has been wide
and, in others, narrow, more rocky.
What matters to me is
that toes of children yet unborn
wiggle in the sand, chase waves.
These children will build sand castles
and they will find their words.