It’s hurricane season now and, although I no longer live where those wild tempests blow, I am reminded of the way the palm trees tremble beneath heavily bruised skies. Of whispers that haunt the mist like ghosts and the way the heat and rain draw tattoos that pattern-swirl down arms and legs in beads of sweat instead of ink. And of how, after the lull before the storm, the rain’s heavy fists pummel everything in sight.
But for every time I think of the destructive force of nature I am reminded of its great beauty too. What draws my thought from there to here to now be thinking of you?
Conch Noise (an excerpt)
By Annette Marie Hyder
A poem from The Real Reason the Queen Hated Snow
On a lonely beach, in a lifeguard tower presumed upon a dare, two siblings sat as the sun sank down and seagulls cursed the air.
The stiff sea breeze remonstrated and their hearts stirred ill at ease. They could also hear the sea’s low murmur as they clutched their sunburned knees. Two sphinxes cast in flesh and bone, they held each other tight and marveled at the beauty of the coming of the night.
The stars were a sparkling fishing net to catch golden tomorrow’s fish in and the song of the sea was theirs to hum to the booming surf’s loud din.
Huge rocks were tumbled and broken by the mercies of the sea. They cupped pools of water in their crooked rock hands, which teemed phosphorescently, with little fish that frothed and bubbled, with shells that glinted and winked, with seaweed fronds that undulated and crabs all rouged and pinked.
The moon shone like Mother of Pearl, aflame luminescently, and purfled and pearled, nascently gilding, the wavelets of the sea. The sea can whisper such sad songs of lost hopes and sunken dreams but it can also crash with joy and sparkle with moonbeams.
Remember that night, sometime when you’re walking on a beach along the brink. Remember flying fish and deep sea monsters and sea snakes that curl and kink. And that vociferous conch shell that you press to your ear? Don’t drop it down with a start. That roaring you hear is equal in “shellibels” to the noise you make in my heart.