Objects Buried in the Sock Drawer
I will stop here.
Yes, here would be a nice place to write this.
Nice because I should be able to concentrate
with nothing to stare at, but the Atlantic Ocean
(and what appears to be a lobster boat, although
it is too far away to be certain). Nice because
this shore seems to embody everything that I love
about Deer Isle.
Surprisingly, I have never felt as insignificant
as when I am sitting in this sand, staring
at the Atlantic Ocean (and what appears to be a lobster boat),
even though here is a simple town, geographically removed
from the Maine mainland (unless, of course, you had a lobster boat).
Here is even the friendly sort of town, where anyone
seems to know everyone else.
An empty seashell, that I found in the sand
seems to echo my humility
as I roll it between my fingers.
As intimidating as industrial cities tend to be,
there is still the comfort of knowing that everything is synthetic
and exists solely for my disposal (now a clam digger
is walking toward me, along the shore), but a small island off
the coast of Maine consists primarily of nature. A nature that thrives and
exists in spite of my existence (I don't believe that he notices me sitting
here). When I see the lobster trappers
and the clam diggers, I realize that they (I don't know why
I insist upon using that pronoun, since I am obviously
one of them) are completely dependent upon this nature
for nearly every aspect of their lives, although they (there I go, again) are
quite extraneous to its existence (there is some kind
of commotion over there--he must have found one).
I am only a short walk from home, but I should be leaving soon
(he must realize that I am here--perhaps, he is just ignoring me)
I will leave this shore behind, but I will hold on to this empty seashell,
for the rest of my life.
--Shawnte Orion