The last light fades, for it is winter now;
there is
a thorn-pierced shore, within the cove
with
waves that overlap the tides that rove
ragged
with driftwood, on a distal bronze brow.
The ocean
held the saline ship’s bow;
beneath
the salty waves the orcas dove
to sandy
darkened depths of blue and mauve,
that rose
to Magnificat’s undertow.
And the floor
threw shells of alabaster
with
frequent storm and violent drenches,
the
greenest land was littered now with stone.
The innocent hands of trees were master,
constant arms outstretched between two branches
made of the Virgin Mother’s bluest bone.
—Emily Isaacson
Photo used by permission: Armstreet Clothing Company
