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Carrie Sandholtz

We wait on cheap beach chairs,  
wise to why the sand is flat,
fat with the jellyfish.
Our children chase the waves beyond the bar,  

bright-chassied, tumbling in the foam;
sunlight flashes on their backs.
Their calls are weak beneath the roar,
dull as the noise of gulls.  

The waves will push them back,
flatten their castles,
bring the foam boarders to our feet,
shivering and kipper-fingered.

They'll learn to lose the chase,
calculate the intervals,
let the waves efface, and wait  
till winter duns their ruddy countenance.