Somewhere in Mississippi river woods
behind the house I found a white seashell
that reminded me of her. The brittle shell
was of a living thing, by the driftwood
there were just handfuls of them. Warping wood
made up the deck we sat on and seashells
were in her necklace. I collect three shells
to make a mobile with, the dry driftwood
holds the whole thing together. With charcoal
I color in the treasure, orange rust,
rich maroons and browns. The skinny pines
grow up in this here delta, glowing coals
sit underneath the fire and a rusted
wheelbarrow leans delicate on a pine.
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