Sunset Stroll

The sun was getting ready to be swallowed by the sea when I turned to walk back over the dunes; my campsite was hard enough to find in daylight, I could not imagine having any success finding it after dark. I could picture myself peering into other people's tents, wondering if they were mine; and imagining the headline in tomorrow's paper, "Peeping Tina Popped at Pismo Beach."

I picked up the pace. But I soon learned that trying to walk faster on sand dunes is counterproductive; the faster I tried to go, the more I slipped, and the less progress I actually made. So I slowed down. To a stop, actually. As I shook the sand out of my hair, my clothes and my eyes, I saw the sky for the first time since I'd hit the dune. The sun hadn't given up without a fight; it had left its colors all over, like a child who doesn't want to pick up her crayons before going to bed.

I climbed slowly up the dune, marveling at the tough grasses and tiny flowers that had found purchase there. When I reached the top, I saw the lights of a hundred campfires, guiding me back.

I laughed. My campsite would be easy to find; my fire was the only one unlit.

© 2007 Cynthia Newcomer Daniel

Copper, sterling silver, hessanite garnets, lampwork by Melissa Vess of Inner Realm Creations. Hand fabricated.

don't make waves

The water was soft and cool as it swirled around her ankles; she waited for it to recede, pulling the sand from under her feet as it did. She sank imperceptibly lower, and waited again, this time for the water to return. The next wave was curling, green and blue as she squinted into the sun; she watched it break, churning white, and speed toward her. For one irrational moment, she thought the water would be deep when it reached her; deep enough, perhaps, to knock her knees out from under her and cause her to slip backwards into the sea as it returned back from whence it came. But it barely grazed the sand, barely wet her ankles, barely touched her at all; yet she sank deeper into the sand as it pulled the earth out from under her.

If she stayed here all day, how deep would she sink? Would the tide rise, and swamp her? Or was it already at its highest, and, as it went out, would she be left in the sand to dry like ropes of kelp?

She did not have the patience to find out. She kicked her toes free from the sand and walked on, skirting the waves, not wanting to know.

© 2007 Cynthia Newcomer Daniel

Sterling silver, hessonite garnet. Hand fabricated.

hollowings

Hollowings

She never sleeps at night, she listens for the geese:
Like reckless children slipping out of bed they call
"Come play!" she turns her face back to the wall
but never sleeps; she never sleeps, she never sleeps at all

they call for her, these large, ungainly birds - in flight,
out on the lake - they mother her across the miles
they plead with her to sleep, to rest awhile
their wings beat reconcile, beat reconcile, beat reconcile

and her reply curves like a smile across the moon
as heavy as her birds, as certain as her nights:
the summer days are losing all their light
she sees her fall in flight - she knows - she sees her fall in flight.


© Cynthia Newcomer Daniel

Sterling silver, lampwork by Donna Millard, hessonite garnets, andalusite, citrine. Hand fabricated.