and an old canvas to paint
broad strokes of blues and greens
in liquid swirls like waves, waves
washing me back to where I stood
knee-deep scooping handfuls
of sand and shells –
my own imperfect treasures
surrendered by the sea,
small reminders
that things broken
can still be beautiful.
Later, I hung
my work on the wall
next to the family photos, sure
I had somehow managed to capture
something inexplicable, something sacred.
What is it?
It doesn’t look like anything.
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