2nd Place Poetry Non Rhyming
Whidbey Island
Overcast & heavy, the sky presses.
It is morning. Gulls hunt clams as we
walk San de Fuca’s shore of wet sand.
Silence seems best, most honest.
I try and decide if I should hold Michelle
bring her into wool & fleece, all that I
have to offer. But I can’t. My hands
are too busy. One nurses a smoke,
its ash impossibly long. The other
is anchored in my pocket, fingering
a rhododendron leaf dry & wasted.
And still, we walk.
The mainland is lost. A sheet of mist
held against clarity. Memory builds
the images of green hills growing
from the Sound. There is faith
in recollection, but there is also—
last night.
I must remind myself how fragile
are lies. Utterances among the sheets,
sighs forced; tears faked.
Forever is so far from this tide
pool & polished rocks. In the fog
a ferry horn races the waves.
Breaking our stride for just one,
last sandy moment.