Bleached Bones

In response to Monika’s Sinous Seaside Wood. Thank you, Monika, for the visual for my idea.


Bleached Bones

Bleached bones
on the beach,
scattered about
carelessly,
some piled high
stacked like cordwood
by an unknown hand.

Whose bones are these
that I touch,
that feel so smooth
beneath my fingers?
Whose bones,
when they lived,
and where?

Would that they
could tell their tale
of what woodland,
on what mountain,
in what valley
they thrived
so stately?

And how did they come to be
here on this lonely beach,
no longer standing tall,
stripped of leaves and bark,
no longer able to provide
shade for travelers passing by,
shelter for the birds—

that come to nest,
the squirrel that finds a hole
in which to store his nuts.
The wind can no longer play
through the branches,
urging the to leaves dance
in wild abandon.

No longer providing space
for the tree house
and the young ones
who come to play,
and for those who
come to climb
and hide in the foliage.

You are though,
no less magnificent
in your smooth as silk,
white trunks.
Skeletons on the beach
to be revered
for your enduring beauty.

Vi Jones
©March 15, 2006