These days, I feel less like a singer and more like a poet.

Gathering Sea Glass

When I was seven and spent afternoons
At the Olson's house,
I always admired the giant vase
That sat on their living room table,
Filled with tiny spindled seashells.

I marveled at the thousands
Of pearl and bronze fronds,
Each of them wrapped
As miniscule and stretched chambered nautili,
Which seemed to infinitely spin.

It must have taken a lifetime
To collect so many.

One day, I finally asked
Where they all came from.

They're my mom's.
She found them on the beach herself
When she was twenty-four,
Before she met my dad.

I found it hard to imagine her
Pacing the shore,
Sagacious in her search
For each delicate spiral,

Her patience, holding them up for inspection,
Tossing the chipped ones aside
In a time before children,
Covenantal vows, companionship.

I found it hard to imagine her alone.

Now, at two years and twenty, I understand.
I pace daily,
Sand-powdered shores,
Gathering sea glass
For my own solitary collection.

I note their arrayed hues,
Their crystal, azure, bronze, and jade.
I hold them up to the light
And look through them.
I toss the imperfect ones aside.

I store the pieces in a large jar,
Their shattered green and white mosaic
Seems almost like me:
Many fragments of something
Not yet complete.

Something indefinite,
And all the more beautiful for it.

--Alicia (2011)