Pawleys Island

nights, we would scuttle to the ghost crab shore
sands’ soft relief beneath dusk skies
singing to the moon’s rise:
the smooth copper penny glowing redder
growing to echo in the dune shells
the summer tree frogs singing heat songs
the sticky sink of earth’s marsh side,
the seaside sinking at high tide
sea oats swaying in the moon’s cloister,
glowing golden yellow

we listened to ghost stories at the fort campsite,
the voice from the storyteller glowing
as the night passed like footsteps…
I had almost forgotten to bow my head at lost lovers
to tread swimmingly in the humility of deep,
sunken as eye sockets
bone smooth as shell underbellies
rippling smile lines winking, twinkling in
universal bliss

this land is land,
granted to us as the night grants the morning heavy dew drops
its history sung to us in the chirp of tree frogs and the
beat of woodpecker bark
its ghosts scuttling like moon shells into each shining sea