Oct 2010
In dreams I see her blonde hair
always in a pony tail
She walks along the shoreline
Scouring the sand for treasure
Light blue shorts and a striped shirt
She quietly wends her way
Bare feet in and out of foam
In her hands, she holds small shells
Delicate and colorful
Orange, pink, yellow and white
These were wampum long ago
Gone now, all gone from this shore
But there she is, eight years old
Golden, tanned, happy alone
Treasures, wampum in her hand
She slips them in her pocket
Stepping into the water
She sees something moving there
A scallop! So carefully,
She reaches down patiently
Leads it with her hand until
The live mollusk slips right in
Clamping shut as she lifts it
It is beautiful, alive.
She knows they have many eyes
A bright blue like no other
If opened, they look like eggs
Cracked, sunny side up inside
Return it to the water
Watching for the many eyes
It hesitates, then opens
Jets away, ever backward
She lifts her face to the sun
One must notice those blue eyes
Then they cloud, time is short now
Soon the sun will leave the sky.
She runs for her red bucket
Half fills it with salt water
The water to her ankles,
She twists her feet, digs up clams
Chowders and some Cherrystones
Digging clams with little toes
Fills the bucket, off she goes.
Wednesday’s child is full of woes.
© Lin Cava 29-August-2008
I grew up on an island. Clams and scallops, ***** and flounder were plentiful and available for the taking. No one took more than they could eat. I had bay fishermen in the family – and they earned their living from the bounty of the waters around us. This poem is about a girl growing up in just such a place. Children this age are often not left to themselves. She thrives in solitude, happiest there. Notice there is no running or jumping or laughter. This is meant to be a somber work. The child knows that she is older than her years, yet she takes her happiness in those simple things that children do. So might we all be awestruck at the beauty of shells, the feeling of a living creature with its own beauty, in our hands. If only we could take the time. In whatever life holds for her, the girl takes her childhood in whatever way she can. Gazing over the water, whether it is the ocean, the bay or a lake, she often sees a woman there, a projection from within. I often see the child in my work. I am a Wednesday Child.
always in a pony tail
She walks along the shoreline
Scouring the sand for treasure
Light blue shorts and a striped shirt
She quietly wends her way
Bare feet in and out of foam
In her hands, she holds small shells
Delicate and colorful
Orange, pink, yellow and white
These were wampum long ago
Gone now, all gone from this shore
But there she is, eight years old
Golden, tanned, happy alone
Treasures, wampum in her hand
She slips them in her pocket
Stepping into the water
She sees something moving there
A scallop! So carefully,
She reaches down patiently
Leads it with her hand until
The live mollusk slips right in
Clamping shut as she lifts it
It is beautiful, alive.
She knows they have many eyes
A bright blue like no other
If opened, they look like eggs
Cracked, sunny side up inside
Return it to the water
Watching for the many eyes
It hesitates, then opens
Jets away, ever backward
She lifts her face to the sun
One must notice those blue eyes
Then they cloud, time is short now
Soon the sun will leave the sky.
She runs for her red bucket
Half fills it with salt water
The water to her ankles,
She twists her feet, digs up clams
Chowders and some Cherrystones
Digging clams with little toes
Fills the bucket, off she goes.
Wednesday’s child is full of woes.
© Lin Cava 29-August-2008
I grew up on an island. Clams and scallops, ***** and flounder were plentiful and available for the taking. No one took more than they could eat. I had bay fishermen in the family – and they earned their living from the bounty of the waters around us. This poem is about a girl growing up in just such a place. Children this age are often not left to themselves. She thrives in solitude, happiest there. Notice there is no running or jumping or laughter. This is meant to be a somber work. The child knows that she is older than her years, yet she takes her happiness in those simple things that children do. So might we all be awestruck at the beauty of shells, the feeling of a living creature with its own beauty, in our hands. If only we could take the time. In whatever life holds for her, the girl takes her childhood in whatever way she can. Gazing over the water, whether it is the ocean, the bay or a lake, she often sees a woman there, a projection from within. I often see the child in my work. I am a Wednesday Child.
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