The day you brought me
a bright bucket of starfish
purple gold brown scarlet
winking through water,
I cast my hope like lines
over the boiling waves
below the silver gray porch.

What will come?

As the tide hurled its liquid bones in,
the humped spine of rocks
submerged slowly,
submitting to relentless will.
Furl, unfurl —
cast out the nets.
Something rich will come.

A line of ducks, like a seam,
puckered the waves, rode up and over
each swell and crest,
and in this way, pushed on
around the point.

I kept watch all morning
as the sea furrowed brows
against wind and tide
and everything moved on
its watery course—
the well oiled clock of it,
minute minute
hour hour.

Later, as the sun’s slant grew
shadows on the waves,
I reached into salty chill
plucked one periwinkle fellow out
felt nubs of arms
1 2 3 4 5
suck slick to my hand,
stomach pushed out,
as it tried to digest
the fine lines of my palm.
Five arms.
One shorter by far—
a loss regenerated
without grief or thought.
It happens like this with sea stars.

Later, crouched on rock weed,
we slowly drift the sea stars
into the tide pool.
Each sinks and comes to rest
on jutting rock barnacle perch,
and the pool becomes salt galaxy once more.
Sea returning to sea.

It happens like this,
a lost arm, a day, a word
a love.
We replace what we need,
from the inside growing out.