The capsized ones float on the incoming tide,
moving them toward sand and air,

where, had they not already died,
they would soon out of their element.

And as I walk the tideline, the cobalt
sailboats of the by-the-wind sailors

tilt starboard and port, cast ashore with
so flattened spines of beached purple

urchins—the worst hair day ever.
Yet the air sparkles blue as the wind

rises into the sun high overhead at
twelve o’clock. And on the beach

two young mothers with four toddlers
between them chat as their offspring

dig in soft sand, chirping like birds,
calling to each other like the gulls

and crows overhead. Come see
what I found! What else might

we find? Their sails flush with
breeze, they set off into waters

that will, with luck, carry these
young sailors into the rest

of their forevers. May they
encounter only fair winds

and following seas; may they
be welcomed home by their

beloveds every time they
come ashore whether or not

they arrive laden with
treasure.