a beachcombing stranger

effervescent collapsing wave remnants but roar and smash. crash and echo. trapped shells cascading
in suction, receding. reverse

end over end as they go.

tumbling fragments of undersea armor, plink piano keys of delicate sound
as monotonous persistent bass of the surf pulverize. unrelenting

now swell, now crest, now pound.

lively debris mosaics of texture, shape, and color.
spiked, spiraled, and chipped, and pink, and yellow, and red, while the vast beach is but uniform tan, and
all these shells are dead.

yet, the beachcomber stoops to examine.
razor thin, black, and jagged
it is not one to keep.
her knotted knuckled bent fingers replace it in the sand, and I close my eyes to sleep, as

the steady tide reclaims it all repeat, repeat. repeat.


Liz Nelson is in full time law enforcement. She and her husband Β live on a small farm and raise cows, goats, turkeys, chickens, and guineas. They donate the butchered animals to the local soup kitchen. They have the joy of sharing life with their two witty, barefoot, somewhat feral little boys, 7 and 5. They all love ice cream, road trips, hiking, camping, and dancing to jam bands. Believing she is called to feed the homeless and needy she dreams of starting up a food truck to serve dinners, most likely spaghetti or quesadillas. This year she feels blessed to be recognizing the astounding lengths to which God has gone in order to make her feel His love and understand her purpose. Looking back at her heartbreak and suffering she sees how every step, even the painful and seemingly unimportant ones, were a deliberate part of His plan. She is exactly where she is supposed to be.