All You Leave Behind

If you were to ask me for a portrait painted with the finest of oils, I would render you with a metaphor instead

and I would call you the ocean -

one that laps along the length of a lonely shore heavy from the weight of the tide

where, upon subsiding, you take with you an edge of sand.

Oftentimes, you leave a tangle behind -

that or driftwood or detritus.

And when you do, all the little creatures would come out to clean and carry it away.

And then there are days when you leave pretty things.

Mainly they are shells that catch the sun in ways the rocks on the beach never could -

that or scales from the many-hued fish or the stately plumage from migrating birds.

They colour the paleness of the sand with charms and delights

until you reach out with a wave,

for all the pretty things you leave behind: the shells, the scales, the plumage,

all of them are yours.

And you keep them where you keep the sand you take from the lonely shore;

from so many lonely shores.

Lately your waves have been empty -

that or the beach is now too thin to bear the tangles, driftwood and detritus, or any of your pretty things

save for the foam of your sigh;

if you remember to leave that at all.

But sometimes you forget and leave a pearl behind.

And when you do, all the little creatures would rush out to admire it for as long as they could

until your waves come back again.