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Myriad of Heavens #8

by Tim Scannell
I stroll to the Pacific coast each day:
Gardens by the sidewalk show the way.
It may be raining or it might be cold
But does not matter - it is the way I go
For a heart needs something it can't see
Where ocean disappears into thin air,
And I can dream what may or may not be
Depending on the yearning once I'm there.
Poop Deck - 1840
  by Tim Scannell
Penguins, flightless
But plumose, of necessity
Plump, ply the Pacific
(Not perch or plum).
  by Tim Scannell
And so the weary toddler
Drags his sand-pail to the car.
"Come, come - last one...
(Sunburn, toe-stub, squint from
Long day's seashore glare);
Come little one!"
A pail
Filled with bits of shell, smooth
And marbly stone, hollowed
Claw of crab...the purple thing..., and
Nearly a pound of grit; a thousand
Considered reasons for that gathering
(For adulthood, now, perfectly equipped).