by Mary R. Smith

I found a scruffy beach
on New York Harbor,
driftwood, zinnias,
a sunflower in sand.

Family huddled
on bleached logs,
took silk bags of ashes,
undid them in the surf,
waters quieted,
particles vanished.

Seals have returned
to this harbor
after a century,
sidestroke near pilings,
heads slick as paint,
our gazes.
Tunneling away,
gliding in currents,
they sweep
irretrievable traces.


“Learning to write poems is a journey – both a struggle and a delight.”