Jack lives at the beach. Breaking waves
are his night music. Taking long strolls
along the tide lines his morning news.
Sand turns up in his trouser cuffs, boots
outside his door. Bright debris
tumbled in the lapidary of the shore
till edges soften over time among the stones
find their broken state renewed
like dragon's hoard in flower pots.
Pieces of glass white green brown blue
wait like found treasure till one is chosen
by Jack's wife Louise, the jeweler, for a pendant
rimmed in gold while the rest simply continue
to be found, a clutch of orphans once cast away
now gathering light in their new lodgings
never in one day arriving all at once since this
depends upon Jack living at the beach
day after day, year after year, gleaning,
redeeming what was once considered
useless and thrown away. Jack lives
at the beach where strings and percussion
sections of the oceanic orchestra guide him,
brass and woodwinds, too; the watery
distinctions mix night with day
and his art transforms the ordinary.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
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