Warm room,

low tide

I left the earth and the humid air

I left myself within myself

I left the orange upon the dresser,

the simmer upon the stove

and the spring to its own devices

I walked out to the sea,

to the low tide

where the sand is rippled with rivulets

and felt it beneath my own hand

I returned to what I had forgotten

In the evening, a sprite dance

I returned before the king’s high,

before the creek dried

and before I could remember

myself, under the warm water

washed from shells

to shells

of the low tide.


Miranda Gillam Grant reads 'Low tide'