Exposure

May 22 2016

The point of land

on the wind-swept shore

is mostly rock.

Thin soil

clings to sheltered spaces

fills the small indentations

and cracks.

The trees are also small

but surprisingly old.

Contorted, like little old men.

Trunks bent

by prevailing wind

so they all lean one way.

Weathered bark

is knobbly, thick,

while roots knuckle-in

with the tenacious grip

of drowning sailors.

I am standing alone, exposed;

no wind-break

no sheltering shade.

But mercifully free

of the biting bugs

that buzz all spring,

persecuting me

after a barren winter.

Tiny wild-flowers

hunker down

among scattered blades of grass.

The grass is short, and coarse

the flowers dazzling.

As beautiful

as finely cut jewels

set in something plain.

Because there is beauty in strength

and scarcity feeds desire.

And beauty to be found

in unexpected places

if you stop long enough

to look.