Here, balanced on white shell sand

that squeaked

As I trod along the stretch of beach

near low dunes,

Sat a child’s bright orange bucket,

blue handle.

The ocean’s flowing pull delivered it ashore,

Or maybe abandoned, lost by a

human playmate,

A container packed with wonder,

Full with forms of sand and


Of shells, feathers, bone, and wood.

Tempted, I did not pick it up, only

considered it.

Further on the walk, I spotted the

missing plastic shovel.

The beach was empty of other souls

for a long stretch,

I was tempted again, still,

I left them all:

The bucket, the shovel,

and the memories.

On a recent television segment,

The astrophysicist said that as adults,

We don’t jump in mud puddles,

Don’t try to catch snowflakes on

extended tongues,

Don’t look up when we walk outside

To stop and observe the vast pallet of


Like so many grains of sand on a



Linda Rosenthal (Apr. ‘15) says, “After I wrote this poem, I tear up whenever I read it. (What’s up with that?!)”

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