I needed space from my space.
The walls of our home that hold us in a loving container
began to feel like a well-meaning,
yet overbearing mother.
And so I drove,
up and over the green-bosomed hills
that contain our towns,
and out to the ocean.
This element of Earth who is unapologetically,
like that one, offbeat bohemian auntie
who let you take sips of her wine when no one was looking.
Shedded the shoes that bound my feet
and walked barefoot.
Each step sunk deeper
into her sands
and let the world fall from my shoulders,
because what was I thinking that I could hold a planet with only my bones?
Her waves thinned into lacy foam as it crept upon the shoreline,
skimming beneath my soles.
This wild auntie revealed her jewel box.
A display of magical stones, stolen from faraway cliffs
the vacant homes of mollusks, patinaed to an indigo blue,
the bleached clam shells, ribboned with deep green
that looked more like woven baskets from Navajo deserts
Plucking each one as a fine treasure,
her waves ambling ashore seemed to whisper,
“Take one more, you’re my favorite.“
And so I did.
~Jennifer Brinn, copyright 2021