LOST

I don't know why I'm here,
rooted in orderly gardens and green lawns.
They told me
that when I was two weeks old
they took me camping on the shore at Rockaway Beach.
My blood still hums
with crash and roar
or gentle lapping on the beach,
and my soul is streaked with salt.
Sand is my turf,
it was always safe to walk upon.

That wild girl still longs
for the limitless water,
wants to be washed in susurration,
rocked in the nurturing fog.
It's scary,
that lost part of her
that nestles quiet in the circling garden.


© 2010 Charlotte Merrill Jensen