One Last Visit to the Shore (In Memory of Joanne)
Marsha Markman
It was a working holiday in that cottage at the shore
the rumpled loft where we laid claim
to long-forgotten treasures put to rest
your easel on the marred plank floor
my laptop on a scarred pine desk
before that great majestic Bay.
We marveled at the likeness of our crafts
paint upon a canvas
symbols on a page
a dryer’s whir across wet oils
the subtle click of keys
stories told, lessons learned
each in their own symmetry.
When dusk depleted our best light
when sailboats turned to harbors safe from storm
we trod the barren rumpled sands
where tides wash castles built by tiny hands
We gathered shells to place upon the sill
memories to savor once again
from children to the women we’d become
from years behind to years and years ahead.
“Friends forevermore,” you vowed
“You are my history,” I said
But all too soon the tragic news
you without a cure
through days of pain and numbered weeks
we once more traveled to the shore
to stroll the sands at water’s edge
to bathe in cool, white foam.
You smiled and wished for one more year
I spoke of miracles, of hope
but hope and miracles were not to be
you were gone, my dearest friend.
But, Oh! the joy of all those years
and one last visit to the shore.
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