Boomslang Poetry


She always hung kelp blades by the back door
to tell how the day would be.

Every morning she would comb that strip of blonde sand
beneath the mountain for his presents:

the perfect stone, a scallop shell,
a Mediterranean sponge far out of its depths,

more and more these days plastic bottle tops (mostly red),
sweet wrappers, knotted rope, once a Marigold glove.

Finally she found it, a mermaidís purse: dried and curling,
amber in the sun, the final ingredient for seeding rain.