THE EDGE OF THE SEA By Molly Blaisdell ______________________ The edge of the sea. Listen. Pounding surf. Brown. Gray. Turbid waters. Foam arching in a steady wind. My name loses meaning here.   I still exist. I still stand. A sentinel—but not stone cold.   I stand at the edge of the sea. I have felt the erosion.   The wounds of time. I’m walking now. Searching for  stones.   A striped one, yellows, golds, shiny blacks chestnuts, flecked granites. My pockets should be full, but the stones tore my pocket and slipped away -- falling. Driven into the sands of centuries. These stones were never mine.   I called them mine, but they were never mine. They belong to the sea.    Copyright ©2004 Molly Cece Blaisdell BACK