Mattapoisett Saturday
(for Bob and Leslie)
The boys scramble over
whelk crusted rocks, splash
through tide pools. They stalk
translucent crabs, shout
when silver small-fry dart
past callused toes, dig
beneath wet sand, paint
freckled bodies thick
with heavy clay. They chase
reflections, churn the bottom
murky, fling seaweed,
scatter stones. In the shallows
I stoop, retrieve a shell,
sun-bleached, ordinary.
I worry it in my hand.
turn it over. An eye
blinks at me, mother-of-pearl.
My sons stand etched,
tanned against turquoise.
Wind gusts carry their laughter
out to sea. Eddies
form at my feet, shift sand.
The pull of gravity
buries jetties, turns islands
into sea floor again. We build
walls against the tide, try
to hold our ground. Even when
it's long past time to go home.