I have always loved the ocean, which I am sure I have mentioned before.  My mother retired to Hilton Head Island many years ago, within easy walking distance of one of the white, sandy expanses of beach on Hilton Head Island, SC.  She’s 92 and hasn’t walked there since her knees gave out.  I try to make it for sunrise but usually end up sleeping too late.

When I visited this time, I walked down on a cool April afternoon.  A few brave souls were in the water, but mostly there was just a scattering of people.  The sun was bright but the wind did not carry any warmth.  I was inspired to write a poem, while huddled against a wooden box that holds beach rental items, with fine white sand sifting into my sandals.  Here goes:

Gray brown waves/Riled by breeze/Sizzling the sand

Wayfarers in neon green, purple, blue/Constricting nature into backdrop

Weathered wooden chairs/With no warmth/Awaiting summer occupants

Solitary seagull/Feathers ruffling/Scavenging scraps

Tiny seashells/Silent, testifying/To ocean depths

Soon, spring shall yield/To summer, hot, frenzied/Smelling of cocoanut

No longer fresh.