Warm sand sifts through my hand.
I sculpt curved roads,
plant trees of sweet fern,
then climb the pine to my platform
and snug my back against bark.
Year after year, I bury broken dolls.
The last hole I dig is for my dog.
hollow eyes, grave grin
click, clatter, rattle—
Wild Ride at Popham Beach
The wave swells, head high
like a stallion prancing proud.
I grasp his mane, grip his sides,
crouch low across my mount.
Charging in on my white steed,
up my nose
to stay astride!
Then he tosses me at the finish line,
salty and peppered
with Popham sand.
© Joyce Ray – All rights reserved
Joyce’s poetry is published in Color Wheel, Entelechy International, The World According to Goldfish, Vol.II, Sight, One Hundred Gourds, the Aurorean and Lay Bare the Canvas-New England Poets on Art.