chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

Tag Archives: sand

found poem: What was

found poem: Remembering

found poem: tending

found poem: From

found poem: the dusty

waves…

the spring…

in the hidden…

THE SEAS…

to the sea…

sand…

land,

nomadic…

you feel like…

each whirl…

it’s rocks…

you thought…

ring…

ringI was in college, home for a visit, and had gone to the beach. Along the shore there, in Santa Monica, the beach is miles long and perhaps 100 yards wide. Vast. The sand is deep and pale and fine, and, in summer, very, very hot.

I glanced down and there, just a few inches in front of my foot, half buried in the sand, was a silver ring. I picked it up. It was delicate and small, with a faint pattern etched into its surface. Without much thought, I sat down on the hot, dry sand, the waves shushing and crashing, shushing and crashing, and slipped the ring onto the second toe of my right foot. There it stayed, eventually creating a small callous at the base of the toe.

That was a long time ago, before people wore rings on every part of their bodies. Finger rings, yes, and sometimes a lot of them, but mostly people left their belly buttons and eyebrows and lips and tongues alone, and a ring in your nose meant that you were a native of some exotic culture from the pages of National Geographic, or a bull.

I did have one friend who wore a ring in her nose — a little gold hoop in her left nostril. It was shocking then, and terribly exotic. The ring was strung with a small red glass bead. Truly, it was a beautiful color and would catch the light, but always, always, no matter how often I saw her or how much time we spent together, my eyes were drawn to the bead and in a flash of panic, I’d think: blood.

I wondered about the little silver ring. Who had it belonged to before I found it? How much sand had sifted through its circle? What had caused it to fall off its original owner? I pictured a very young bride, with tiny fingers, or a teenager, not that much younger than myself, whose fingers were encrusted with rings. Perhaps a young man had entrusted the ring to the pocket of his swimming shorts, planning to give it to his girlfriend — a proposal, a promise — only to lose it, and perhaps her too.

I wore the ring on my toe for ten years. But eventually it had to go. I was working in an office and wearing grown-up shoes and and the ring would rub a little snag in the foot of my pantyhose that would turn into a run, right up the front of my leg. After a few more years the callous went away too.

I still have the ring. Sometimes, holding it in my hand, I’m whisked back to that day at the beach, and there it is again: tiny, circular, a wink of silver in the endless expanse of silvery sand.

trying to write…

sand crab AKA mole crabAs kids, at the wide, soft-sanded beaches of Santa Monica, we’d run after the last swish of each receding wave to collect sand crabs.

They were fast, disappearing into the near-liquid sand, leaving a dimple that turned into a tiny aperture. Plunging a hand straight down, we’d feel for the scuttling creature, then yank it up into the sunshine. On our palms, its busy legs tickled. We’d toss it into a little bucket with some sandy water and carry it around for a while, examining our captives with a child’s fascination. Then we’d up-end the bucket and watch the crabs dash, dig and disappear.

As I sit down to write, the sand-crab words scuttle across my mind and sink into the wet sand, leaving only a tiny, dark hole.
—–
sand crab photo

river…

riverLike crickets calling in chorus, the leaves burnish the afternoon with their whispered rustling. Eddies of air twirl our hair, riffle the river, caress the stones crumpled on the shore. Green tendrils wave beneath the water, push emphatically through the sandy turf, bend to the lure of the sea. Purple weed, mauve rock, persimmon colored flower marooned at the water’s edge.

Gravity, ever serious at its work, presses on each of us here, holding us steady on the slope, weighting us down as if we too could be impressed upon the riverbank, anchored in the soil. But we are only sandbars, forming and reforming, drowning and basking in the cycle of days.
—–
photo by Rob Love

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