says the sign on the red and white cooler
in my neighbor’s front yard. Kids on bikes, curious
walkers, tourists who wander off the beach
lift the creaky top. We find smooth stones,
egg-sized, still heavy with the mountain
they long ago deserted, each painted
with a word. Should I prop open my door
with imagination, anchor fly-away papers
with song, or ponder oblivious and obvious
as bookends? Sunrise could last all day
on the mantle, and I could fiddle with detrimental
in my jacket pocket without causing harm. Visitors
will surely depart with dolphins
nestled in duffle bags, a teenager will tuck courage
under her pillow. I choose wisely,
so understanding remains
for the home that needs it most.


From On Shifting Shoals (Kelsay Publishing, 2023).
Used here with the author’s permission.