by David Anson Lee

Before dawn, the beach
holds its breath.
Waves lift pale light from the horizon
and leave behind sea glass:
the softened proof
that breakage can learn patience.

I find a blue shard,
flat as an untroubled sky.
Salt settles in my throat
like a language I almost remember.
Somewhere, a bottle shattered,
hands let go,
years were carried without asking.

Morning loosens the tide.
I close my fist around the blue,
as if it might keep
what I never said
from returning to the water.

David Anson Lee is a poet whose work explores memory, landscape, and the intersections of personal and ecological attention. His poems have appeared in numerous literary journals, including Ink Sweat & Tears, Braided Way, Eunoia Review, Silver Birch Press, Right Hand Pointing, and Unbroken Journal, among others. He lives in Texas.