Excerpt from a Poem by Cathy Dana:

Conversations with the Sea

Part I. The Place

I notice the place
Where wet sand meets dry
The line curving and
Uneven, a soft shadow
Of hills and valleys, dry sand
Licked by a curious tongue.
Sand embraces, arms open wide,
Greeting these waters, welcoming the waters
Never rejecting
Never too busy
Never closed for the day.
Licked sand smooth and glistening,
Sculpted but not tamed by the waters¹ touch.
The uneven waterline meanders
Graceful in its lack of discipline
Sometimes a distinct line
Sometimes the dark wet fades imperceptibly
Into the light dry.

Part II. The Gifts

The sea, for its part, brings little gifts
To amuse the sand; pebbles, driftwood,
Broken shells, seaweed; deposits them,
Then leaves them for a time.
Great mounds of seaweed hug the sand,
Resting after a long, liquid voyage
Waiting till the tide sweeps in and
Calls them home again, back
To the undulating underwater world.
The seaweed, pungent and steeped
In by-gone eras, memories of
First life, birth of life, the briny Origins of life,
Is now only great mounds of
Sea debris, heaped carelessly
On wet sand. I step around this debris
Deliberately. I turn to lovelier vistas,
Lapping waters shimmering beneath distant hills and
Big sky, then catch myself knee-deep in a skulking,
Invisible prejudice. Sea ³debris² I
So quickly name it---
And find myself guilty of
Dismissal without observation, perhaps
The one true sin
Against life, against God.

Part III. The Space
I look sandward once more,
Look closer, more space in my breath now
The mounds are angel¹s hair, seabraids,
Twisted like French knots
Mounds with long tails
Or tentacles. Angel¹s hair
Green, maroon, pink, golden, tangerine,
Purplish brown---a sea rainbow
Festooned with green streamers of
Wakame. It¹s that ³beauty in the eye
Of the beholder² thing; just
So breathtakingly true.
I smile at the seaweed
And nod to prejudice, stalking me still.
I find new space in my breath
For my prejudice. Recognized, it
Becomes transparent and docile.
I turn again to the great
Mounds with tails.
How would I look upon them
Were I the proud mother of
These fine seaweeds?
Would I take time to know
Their every nuance? Would I see beauty
No one else could possibly
See? Would I ache For my seaweed child,
An ache raw, unbidden, and
Clasped fiercely to my heart?