Water Calls
by Scott Shaffer

I amble along the quiet shore, while the rising regent warms my frame,
enlivens my soul. Last night’s roaring, crashing waves had thundered

like cannons assaulting the Lake Erie beach. But today, like ballerinas,
wavelets dance coastward, bow gracefully, disappear into a ripple.

Sea gulls screech and swoop for breakfast, sandpipers skitter.
Other witnesses are absent, but I’m carefree and hopeful, not lonely.

Avoiding storm-tossed driftwood and dead fish, my toes squish
in cool, loosely-packed, glistening sand.

I stoop to grasp a small piece of polished, colored glass;
its rounded contours make me wonder, What was it

before facing its crucible and setting sail? What shaped it?
Sensing a strange kinship, and wanting a memento, I pocket

the battered piece of broken-bottle-become-sparkling-pebble …
and move on. Scanning the horizon, I imagine a voice hovering over

this primeval pond, whispering an ancient tongue of comfort.
I respect water’s awe-inspiring power, but relish its gentle restoration.

And from here to forever, the water calls me.



 

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