Baby Island

There are few trees

on Baby Island

just crushed shells

worked by currents

into a long ridge

which at low tide

forms a bridge

to another land 


Salt grasses grow

along its back

gray green spikes

among which

sea gulls nest

while on the beach

harbor seals bathe

themselves in sun


We’re of simple stuff

afoot on spits of chance

rooted among shells

shaped by circumstance

When winter comes

and currents shift

where will we be then?

Who will we be then?


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
This entry was posted in poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Baby Island

  1. centuries of philosophical angst reduced to its provocative essence


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s