Wood. Salt. Tin.

Little soul,
do you remember?

You once walked
over wooden boards
to a house
that sat on stilts in the sea.

It was early.

The sun painted
brightness onto the water,
and wherever you sat
that path
led directly to you.

Some mornings
the sea-road was muted
scratched tin,
some mornings blinding.

Then it would leave.

Little soul,
it is strange — 

even now it is early.

More Poems by Jane Hirshfield