The Beachcomber The old man, weathered by the sea, Walks along the line where The ocean caresses the sand, And he picks up odds and ends That were deposited upon the shore. He looks through piles of ancient drift wood, Broken shells, and tumbled stones, For any discarded items the selfish sea Might have strewn upon the beach. He is a searcher, a wanderer; Barefoot in the sand. He sidesteps dying clumps of kelp And lodges sand between his toes To match that within his hair. Years of harsh sun upon his back Have made him weary; Have dried his once tender skin. He is tired and so lies upon the shore. Slowly, grain by grain, He is washed back to the sea. Donielle LeAnn Jackson