Beachcombing Poem by Clifton King

Sea and sky, a meld of grays
before a retiring north wind.
An ebb tide leaves behind
those worthless passengers
of storm-tossed waves:
sinewy strands of seaweed,
shells and bits of driftwood.

I think of all I’ve left behind.

A stone, face smooth from millennia
of the sea’s caress, catches my eye.
I skip it across her shallows,
continue my search for something
I won’t know until I see it.
That’s the way of beachcombing
—and love.