SHORE

Six thirty a.m. Beside my bed a drawer

One quarter open ,like a lip in the gloom,

Pouting, reluctant to say what has happened.

Light increases at the window, edging

The dark rectangle of blind with white.

Spring dawn is pouring in, unstoppably,

Like the silent rising tide of a brightening sea

At the beach of a million shells where childhood

Left. Inevitably this day will be stacked

Away with others, like plates in  a cupboard,

Clean as answered questions, but in this moment,

I may taste salt air and walk that mystic shore.