Margaret

I met a child while walking the shore,

Whose legs were as brown as a child’s could be

Whose eyes were as dark as the water at night,

With phospherent flickers deep their cores.

The beach that she romps on is made of red clay,

The waters feel cool, with a coarse, rock-lain floor,

And breezes, sly fingers, have tangled her hair.

The child’s life is a dream on the Chesapeake Bay.

Paula Lyons, MD