A nick of a rubbery tip,
the stretched neck six inches deep,
the burrowed body praying for rain.
I carve at the grain, careful
not to crack my existence. Must keep
the shell safe in my grip.
A vehement squirt protests.
A match of wills, but Iíll win,
unless I let go,
unless Iíve had enough,
unless I save the rest for another day.
The waves behind the dunes tug
at my gnat-bitten arms, yet
the friction of sand scraping in quest of the gritty sea,
the vista of water, flats, and grass, and the stillness,
the stillness keeps me here.
I find infinite holes.
Barefooted, with a half-bucket haul, just enough,
we pass the red dinghy, Johnís buoy, and sea lavender
growing amongst the sea beans.
Yes, letís add the lavender and beans.