We walk on a sunny day in the late spring Down the gravel road by the old lighthouse to the shore Dry goldenrod bends over into the road, brushing against my legs as I walk by.

The gravel mixes with beach-sand under my bare feet As we walk by the base of the lighthouse The goldenrod giving way to pink sheep-sorrel and rugosas, And long dusty grasses bent over.

Nearing the beach, purple-and-yellow solanums dot the way Larger stones under our feet, and driftwood resting gray Fragments of iridescent mussel and periwinkle shells here and there And bone-white shells of clams.

The beach itself is of dry sand and many shells, And soft stones made smooth by the sea Contrasting with the jagged bedrock that juts up from the sand.

We take a seat on a driftwood log, the sun warm upon us And listen to the sound of the waves: The sea is always moving, but in the peace of this day The world has a gentle stillness.