Beachcombing

Is a pilfering of the graveyard.
We, unashamed to disturb their peace,
Robbers who leave meandering tracks
Until the grim reaper's rumbling sloth
Washes them away.
This time I find only pathetic broken remains.
I am an angel harvesting in Auschwitz
Instead of Paris.

Tiniest ones are still perfect,
But full-grown specimens retain
Just a core of old beauty,
a cracked swirl.
A wizened old woman with beautiful eyes.

One, sheer as a desiccated leaf,
Golden ginko,
Fragile as feathers
Hard as rock,
Tumbled miles before resting in my hand.

Topsail NC
March 9, 2017
copyright by the author