In a jar, a beautiful jar, globe like, pinched in here and there like a woman, accordion edged top, missing it’s lid, although that isn’t a good word for the solid spherical crowning glory I broke. In this jar is my morning beach cache of smoothed glass.
There is no reason to stoop while walking to pinch up bits of broken glass, no reason to look down rather than take in the long shoreline, the clouds mimicked by water.
The dog finds a ball. He carries it and I bend to pick up glass. The ball is water logged, sand fills his mouth, he drops it, looks at me. A gull flies low, we are distracted, eyes go to sky. The ball sits fifty feet back. I see the dogs empty mouth. In my pocket bits of glass mix with sand.
I bring the ball home in the hood of my coat so the dog isn’t burdened.
The beach is a landfill of stones. The history of the earth under my feet. I don’t study their lines, colours, embedded life. If I sit and study, observe, touch, note, separate, enjoy, weep, I will run out of time.
I spill the glass on the counter, a constellation, photograph it, then pour it into the jar. I run water over the ball, open the door and throw it in the yard.
The day starts.
xoLA
Is a Woman 