The red highlights in her hair
catch the sunset splashing
in golden amber tones.
A plaid poncho she wears
streams behind her in the breeze,
pulling at her neck in liberation
attempts.
Her feet make imprints in the sand
where the tide rolls in,
lasting longer in spots where she
paused
to place a piece of wampum
or beach glass
in the wool folds of her cape.
She sees faces in the knots
of driftwood,
vitality in the shipwrecked
starfish,
shapes in sea polished rocks.
As I watch from a distance
I remember her pattern
of walking,
seeking,
saving,
continuing.
Her movements become
predictable,
as consistent as
signals from a lighthouse
beckoning lost ships
to harbor.
The Beachcomber is the
bright light
that guides her loved ones
home.