Joanna M. Weston

a piece of flotsam
washed in on the tide
creature of storm
she emerged salt-wet
mute as spume
shells in hand
sand encrusted

we took the girl in
fed her kelp and oysters
‘til a cliff-high storm
blew her away

this child of wind
curling wave
intermittent sorrow
we claimed and held
between tides of pain