Sukia
Inspiration Piece
Hurricane Season
Donna Lewis Cowan
Response
We were house-bound during the hurricane,
relaying the part of us that would run
versus the one that would delay,
stay and watch, heart beating fast.
When the waters receded,
all that had stood apart
in coastal postcard perfection
now intersected: the bowed crown
of a palm tree; the taut tines
of a wet seagull’s feather
missing its owner; the seaweed’s
fetal curl; a hurried cursive script
in the sand spelling something
unknowable. The crescent moon
has left its stamp, duplicated itself –
steadying a landscape forever changed –
steadfast through the jagged EKG
of tidal markings, their chevron stripes
darting in crisis. A seashell spins
in shallow water, forever between
land and sea, still or drifting
with the moon’s whims. Each grain
of sand lacks memory, cannot recall
its shearing-off from solid rock,
or its mute migration like waterfall
into the multitudes. But today
there is nothing the sand hasn’t touched,
having thrown a weight
mightier than any mountain.
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