I was born

of the ocean. Its

waves lapped

up

the shimmering froth on the

banks of the shore.

They made

me – the shore – I was born

of its waves’

accord.

Often the ocean, of which

I was born,

cannot help but over –

lap my froth. The froth is a

marker by which the

ocean must abide

but it doesn’t

always.

Often the ocean, hungry and

bulging with overflow

goes past its own

marker (which is also

mine). Creeping,

creeping, it thinks that

I can’t see

the hands of its waves,

fingers gouging

my friable shore which

cannot help but yield

to the ocean

over time.

The ocean is eating away

at its children, my

children. Its waves take

away from the shore; eroding.

But not before it

gives.

Born of the ocean, I

was given

gifts of foundation with the

strength of men tenfold; gifts of

green, fecund. Both are

giving, my gifts from

the ocean.

For all of its

returning – pestering –

eating – taking –

grains of salt

help cleanse the wound

and the hurt. It stings,

but the cleanse precludes the

rising

sun. Oh, sun! With your

dawning comes the lapping

of time

followed by the lapping of

its waves. Of the ocean

I am born again.

• a daughter’s thanks in retrospect