Ivy thinks of when she stood
on the beach, just beyond the reach
of the lapping waves.
Seagulls circled above her
like guardian angels and
her hair danced
like wisps of dark smoke
in the wind.
She remembers when she drew
pictures in the sand every day
and how they washed away
with each new tide
and when she watched sails
turn orange in the distance
gradually disappearing
as they seemed to sink
into the horizon,
followed by the setting sun.
On breezy days
she holds her seashell
to her ear, listening
to the spurious rumbling
of the ocean
and stands beside
her open window
to let her hair dance again
like wisps of white smoke
in the wind. -- Jeff Barnes
