Ann Rousseau Smith

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Feather Duster Feet

(Barnacles)

When tide is low, we close up tight

like clumps of chalk - dry and white.

When tide is high, we come alive.

Our feasting starts as waves arrive.

Attached headfirst to shoreline rocks,

we feed with feet - no shoes or socks.

Our feather duster feet will sweep

for tasty morsels from the deep.

With a sweep

of my arm,

I reach for the night

to pull

it down close

as I slip into sleep.

It encircles

my limbs,

my face and my feet

with its shimmering

blanket

of blackberry velvet—

embroidered

with threads

of glimmering gems.

Each whispering jewel

serenades

with a lullaby:

dream . . .

dream . . .

dream . . .

What if seeds of peace

grew like weeds:

persistent,

hardy,

resilient?

We’d pull the tops,

but the roots would stay:

spreading,

quiet,

insistent.

We might forget them . . .

until they sprouted again.

What if pesticides were outlawed

or non-existent?

The warmth of a smile,

the nurture of time

would be all it takes:

asters,

daisies,

lavender.

What a welcome invader

peace would be.