April 29, 2009

Each morning at the beach
people search the empty
stretches for treasure, reach

their hands in, pull peach
pits out and cans, empty
each one. Mourning the beach’s

lost promise, seagulls screech
for scraps of food, empty
stretch after stretch of treasure. Reach

and let go, says the tide, each
wave a wave of empti-
ness these mornings at the beach.

I learn to love the bleached
sand’s color, let my mind empty,
stretch. I let each want go, reach

up like a spinnaker to leach
light from the otherwise empty
sky. Each morning at the beach,
this open, outstretched reach.

Gwen Hart