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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