Last summer
we tiptoed
across

driftwood panels.
Barefoot, but
carefully alert

we’d watch as
poison ivy
clung onto

both sides of
the boardwalk,
embracing

splintered curves
between each
set of three.

Today, I step
straight up to
the saltwater,

and dip my
leaves into the
ocean’s cold

arms.
I look down
and find

remnants of
treasured days
at my feet.

I collect
driftwood
panels, line

them along
a foreign shore,
and walk

the deadly
plank with
clenched toes.

How long
before
they too

are
swallowed
whole?