While others quilt, she mails hope to inmates, warms hands of Pomo children gloved in wool of knitted cast-off skeins, dares the townhall renovate its attic to shelter village homeless. Age scars her perception, years pile like cords of wood - tomorrow's ashes. Gossip blanches skin, blotches welcome's face. Silence is her home and solitary her game, yet an enigmatic smile-wrinkle adorns the corner of her mouth. That gathering glimmer above the shallow sea signals a homing tide.
Shells join a foamy crest to soak the sand.
My rumpled beach set in order, parasols kneel at its feet.