Survivors
Some storms roll in
like pewter waves,
spurred by dream fragments
or a ripping of melody.
So swift, they yank the tide
from ankle kissed foam
to a green-fingered despair,
grasping even to the hip.
Such squalls can catch the wader up;
toss them high upon a shipwreck’s arc,
drag them lone and low
beneath an undertow’s heel.
Some, dawn will roll sandward again,
melting blue from lips and deeper places;
leaving them shaped and shaken
but grateful for each brackish breath