(original poem by me)
The silver moon climbs in the east
And pulls along the rolling sea.
At lowest ebb, black mussels close,
Still dripping, into salty pools
Where sculpins dart and hide in fright,
If passing shadow blocks their light.
Starfish clamp themselves to rocks.
Anemones bind their snaky locks.
Then, slowly, footprints in the sand
Erase as waves contract, expand.
As leisurely as the fading light
The mossy rocks sink out of sight.
Essential in the plan must be
The moon that daily stirs the sea.
(something to remind all of us dealing with December
that summer is out there---somewhere)