At the Edge
Hesitate—
footprints masked on mottled beach,
foot-warmth from late sun on sand,
tang of salt and withered seaweed
on the breeze.
Why that restive impulse
to level with my hands
rippled sands to glass?
Trace the shore,
prudent not to let the gentle swash
tempt my feet from sandpiper paths.
Past the crescent’s tip more light-spots
goad meanderers.
Turn, chilled.
Among myriad stars,
no North.
Perhaps
a makeshift craft might
strike through breakers, whitecaps,
over waves reworked from ancient threads,
to untouched deeps.
Judy Whitehill Witt has turned all her attention to playing with words, following three decades of working with computers. Her first published poem recently appeared in
The Quotable. She’s querying agents for
Twice Upon a Trip, two travel memoirs woven into one, driven by her quest to track down an anonymous diarist. As she retraced this eloquent American’s trail through the Europe of 1831, she sensed him slyly smiling over her shoulder, waiting for her to discover his name. She didn’t disappoint him. From her home in Glen Allen, Virginia, Judy blogs about writing, travel, and genealogy at
www.judywittbooks.com.
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