IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK
On Katalinka Hill
A free verse poem
this morning, I glimpsed
a small pinecone
perched on the ossuary
pretending to be a sparrow
enjoying the dapple of morning sunlight
surveying a bright and shining sea
from its resting spot, quite unaware
it guarded the polished bones
of sailors lost, then found,
waiting for what, we cannot know
perhaps a ship’s return or spring?
and there is no plaque here to mark
their memory of rolling waves,
rocking timbers, barnacled steel,
salt on hands, on cheeks, on lips
or names, or flowers, or families
the wind no longer breathes
the very warmth of them
the lighthouse and the tall trees
stand sentry of the far and near
boughs bend when the air is strong
offerings alight, leaves, pinecones,
and even sparrow feathers
flitting in life’s to and fro
a treasure of tiny moments
