The Sandy Eubank Memorial Prize
We have been to this place before.
The old cabin facing the marsh,
The sulfur tasting water for tea
The thick white mugs.
The dock sporting the torn ropes
Of crab traps and fishing lines,
The carved initials and hearts
On the splintered railings
The dolphins who pop up
To speak in their fish tongues,
The turtles who return
From their secret ocean voyages,
Leaving their children
To struggle out to sea,
The little foxes
Who come at night
To raid their nests,
The small and large
Tragedies of the shore.
I step out again
To kindle the cooking fire
In my magic coat
Of pollen and ashes.