Ivy

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