And still I'm traipsing through the fields
of wildflowers and grass and foxtails. Beyond
these ... [+]
a rusted Normal Rockwell tin
weighted down with--what?
bits of glass
but mostly plain and clear
barnacle-crusted clam shells
the sorts of things of which mothers say,
"What are you going to do with those
when you get them home?
I'm not going to carry them for you."
Now I spend my priceless time
placing each into a jar
considering whence it came.
The neighbors' waterfront?
Point no Point?
The Oregon Coast?
Rain patters on the attic window.
One day my daughter will say,
"Your great-grandfather's very own hand
carried these home from the bay
one hundred years ago."