By: Michele Habel-Coffey

The pools of those eyes – 

Low tide.

Clams and scavenging

Shellfish busy, scuttling.

I think of warm, melted butter.

I think of summer music on

A grassy hill, the caress

Of humidity, and bare shoulders –

burden be damned. I am lifted –

A floating mist on rolling waves,

Warmed by the morning sun and

Whelved into the folds

Of High tide.