She danced in joy, my little sprite,
while the sea breeze teased her springing hair
and seagulls chattered, in mid-flight,
laughing with her, as she skipped and scampered,
the spindrift clouds shifted and drifted
above the beach of golden sand.
Then she took her father’s hand,
let it go to gambol in the gray-green waves,
while I kept them both in sight, her sister cuddled to my breast—
the memory now smoothed and polished like sea glass,
I roll it around sometimes--
smelling the scent of salty mist in its faded colors.
Merril D. Smith writes from southern New Jersey where she often walks along the Delaware River and occasionally visits the Atlantic Ocean.