Spring Tide

By Sherri Felt Dratfield

A woman stands on a dune, orange vested.
Her eyes, green, command the sea, will it to stay calm.
Her wavy, sand-colored strands sway in synch with a harmless breeze.
Her heart beats with a rhythmic shoreline that has already forgotten
the ruin left in the wake of its recent
outburst.

The woman stands among a swarm of men in neon-yellow jackets.
They drill holes—
poking in pollen.
She nestles in dune brush,
leans like the patches of tall sea-grass surrounding
her. They are survivors of past storms.

The dune grassers
drill, hum, plant sticks in
slim cavities, dry but willing
to receive these straw bits—
will moisture come,
will roots dig in before more hurricanes arrive?

She bends and plants
on a barren crest,
bends and plants
small stalks,
bends and plants,
bends, plants.

The beach reclaimed, giant pipes are stacked.
The ocean revs, drowns out tractor growls;
the elephantine CAT army scoops up each rusty trunk
to lead the way, bob, sway,
mount, then cross the boardwalk bridge.
Soon all traces of beach-fill machinery will be

gone
to the next site,
down coast.
The woman removes her vest.
She darts a look at the
unrepentant sea.