Wave on wave came crashing in

with savage blows, to crush the sand,

send snowy foam in graceful arc,

to then retreat with sucking sighs.

And in the wake, where bubbles blew

and breathing holes marked hidden clams,

tiny stones, shone like gems

and winked the sun, hot overhead.

Palm fronds rattled in the breeze,

casting shadows, cooling shade.

The only sound the breaking surf,

the day was clean of other noise.

What force, the never-ending grind

of wave on beach, that rending stroke

that spawns the sand, the grist, its life.

the golden harvest of remorseless waves.

 

The character of coast and beach;

etched by the crashing of the waves.

Those actions that life’s forces make

on lives and how we cope with them.

And so among the shattered shells

the broken stones, our plans and dreams,

a small pink shell survived it all,

two parts quite whole, the hinge intact

amongst the litter of the grander spoils.

Fragile it lay, perfect on my palm,

It’s worth not measured by its size

but by its beauty and the flexing hinge.

 

David Garlick, Puerto Vallarta, February 1998