Buried Treasure
by Mindy Rice

 

    The beach is full of rocks,

rip-rap so that

the best you can do at high tide

is watch from the cliff.

   

The stairs are still there,

pock-marked cement, slippery

from the comings and goings

of surfers, salt spray,

and whatever microorganisms

have chosen to take up residence.

   

I rarely bother to swing by

on my way to other beaches

anymore, but I did yesterday,

descended the soppy steps

and picked my way down

through the pile of ragged boulders

to the low-tide sand.

   

The reek of kelp was familiar

for a foggy morning, but what I sought

is getting harder to find. I'd need

the sun for starters to parch the . . .

   

Well, no,

first I'd have to get rid of

the rip-rap, shove the margins back

even further than the current

concrete wall, expose

the old one as rough as

the coarsest sandpaper, ice plant

dripping over the ledge.

 

 

Then the sun could come

with a smattering of children

hopping like crazed wild rabbits

in Mother-May-I giant steps

across the sizzling surface

of a noonday beach, spilling

purple Shasta soda from already-

opened pop cans as they rushed

to the safety of the shade

under Mom's umbrella.

   

And the cove would moderate

the breakers so at mid tide

it would be just right

for all those whining kids

now nagging their mothers

to let them go in, to forget

about the required hour of waiting

after gulping gritty sandwiches

and tossing the crust

to the seagulls.

 

When did Santa Cruz build the yacht harbor?

It must be forty years ago at least

since the giant breakwater disturbed

the natural flow of sand.

That could well explain

why these memories have clouded

like beach glass,

but who can tell me why

I feel almost eager to let them slip

through my fingers

like Mother's ashes

into the flooding tide?

 

Mindy is a former teacher and long-displaced Californian who has returned to revel in the poetic influences of Santa Cruz and its surrounding communities.