Near the woods in East Hampton
where maples, pines grow tall,
where ferns, mosses make green carpets,
where cardinals sing, owls whoo, hoo,
where deer, squirrels run free,
where spiders weave webs,
butterflies frolic,
lies a broad beach.
Kayakers, kite boarders, swimmers
take advantage of ocean breezes.
Bathers share the beach with terns, gulls,
mussels, crabs.
Yesterday, I shared it with a granddaughter, seven.
Hand in hand, we walked the sand,
admiring riches of the sea,
birds nesting there,
burrowing crustaceans,
salty seaweeds washing to shore.
Observations, questions peppered the day
even post the promenade sailing on porch deck chairs.
Yaya, I see white around the edges of your hair.
Do you paint your hair brown?
Does it make you sad to eat animals?
To be a predator?
When I’m grown up, you’ll be gone.
What are the pink dots on your arms?
What happened to your toes?
And though I invited all commentary in,
felt the power of the waves that brought
them to my shores,
I also felt transparent.
How could a child voice my own dilemmas, struggles?
Know that between vitality, deep green, lie decline, decay?
Empty mollusk shells, munched on crabs, fish bones on a plate,
and a grandmother who’s waxed, and now wanes.
All signs that tell.
But entrance into Katusha’s world, however transient, is sacred.
Clearer than a mirror.
Closest to truth.
Lynn Benjamin
August 1, 2021