A Rose Arose

My (current) profile photo was taken at Myrtle Beach the morning after prom night. The day was cloudy and the rose was being rolled across the sand by a damp wind. It was a poem all by itself, a metaphor, I couldn't tell if it was sad or lovely, so I took its picture.

Some of the most perfect moments in my life have taken place in or on the ocean. Standing in the surf in the sun, speckle-blinded by floating diamonds of light, pulled, oh pulled by water. Walking stung by sand into cold wind, pulled into the cloud-colored water, dancing with surf. We used to play sandpiper, advancing and retreating, digging for sand crabs then running for our lives. Ocean, mother, lover, killer, mesmerizing in all her colors and moods, a flagrant caster of riches on sand. I  pored over the sand as a child, searching for completion in shape and color - only the most perfect shell would do. The search is now the same, but the standard of perfection is not. The most beautiful are twisted and pocked by age and adversity, or polished to reveal color and grain. But the pebbles, the beach stones, they have to be perfect. Still.