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by Cynthia Linkas
Sea glass, frosted tracks of time,
ice blue, beer gold,
tossed everywhere on this beach, even under rocks.
Tides turn matter over on itself, even ours.
We touch this glass and mourn
because we know
how life leaves a trail of broken shards, a smoked beauty.
We pocket the bright blue
and all that lies within,
its color and shape and spirit of once.
Its new form of now.