Mother's Breathing

                                    Inhale.

Long Island Sound withdraws its wave-edge

From Cove Island’s shoreline,

Collects the offshore breeze

From behind our backs,

As it rolls over the park field, crosses

The asphalt runners’ track, and dips over the seawall,

Then our shoulders,

And finally onto the rocks,

Washed-up crabshells, and shattered oyster shells.

                                    Exhale.

Onto the Sound, glinting like

Dancers relaying messages from heaven,

Delivered to us on the shoulders of petite waves.

 February 1996