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    linda
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    I wrote this poem about 2 yrs ago on what was my worst day in 5 yrs. I'm not a poet, but these thoughts and images had been wandering around in my head ever since I recognized that the disease was slowly coming back, and also at that time, my friend died from complication of RA. I also had to drop out of school for the 3rd time because of the PA. My sister is a poet and helped with some of the phrasing, but I mostly threw her stuff out as it didn't quite fit what I was trying to stay. It's a bit overly dramatic in one part, but remember that I was in a great deal of physical and emotional pain; I felt like I had lost the last battle and there was nothing else I could do. Anyway, here it is. As Joan Wilder says, “Read it and weep, I always do.”
    I have debated for a long time whether to publish this poem here because it is not exactly uplifting; instead it is realistic for some of us.

    One last thing, I no longer feel the way I did when I wrote this poem, but it is a good reminder to me of how easy it is to get sucked into this vicious cycle, and sometimes there is nothing we can do about it but let it roll over us and start over.

    The Silver Line

    A Silver line appears on the horizon.
    A trick of light, I shrug my shoulders,
    Continue searching for seashells
    That give beauty and meaning to my day.
    Starting late, I feel the urgency of time.

    The morning passes slowly.
    Shells scraping joyously against the sand
    in my bucket are proof of my progress.
    A flash in the corner of my eye
    pulls my sight back to the horizon.
    Was it that big before? Of course it was.

    A black fly tickles the back of my neck.

    Move on, fill your bucket,
    no time to stand around and watch.
    My search becomes more difficult, yet
    Each shell is lovelier than the last.

    A cold wind from the sea whispers.
    Yes, it is closer now.
    Is it bringing a new cache,
    or come to reclaim mine?

    Looking behind I see how far
    I've walked this shore, the distance stuns.
    Looking ahead I see how far I have to go; keep moving.
    Cool foam mixes with warm sand,
    tingles, and pulls my tired feet forward.

    Enticing shells unfold their secrets-
    have they always been here, waiting to be discovered?
    Some slide back to the sea
    and wash up again for my sons, who follow.
    I know they will bring them joy…

    I hear the rush of the sea, pushing the wave closer.
    The air is heavy.
    My feet sink into the waterlogged sand.
    The day is passing swiftly as the wave approaches.
    Slow down, please let me finish.
    Just a few more shells, that's all I need.

    But it's too close.
    Take what you have gathered and leave, I say,
    search for treasures on another shore.
    The sand is like glue, holding my feet, pulling them down.
    I turn and face it, defy it.
    Stand my ground.
    It will pass.

    A dull roar fills my ears.
    The dark wave fills the horizon,
    I can feel it's callous heart
    As it builds and blocks the light.
    The dark wall becomes a tower of liquid steel,
    In which my blackest fears have become real,
    Again.

    I can't see past it.
    Go away, I cry.
    I close my eyes.
    I'm tossed like seaweed in the surf.
    Every movement is pain.
    Go away, I whisper.

    The sea becomes glass, quiet and serene,
    oblivious to the wreck.
    The joyous shells are lost in the tide;
    Their beauty and meaning buried in the water.
    Get up. Walk away.
    Try not to look back.

    A new day.  A new beach.

    A black fly tickles the back of my neck.

    A silver line appears on the horizon.

    Dedicated to my first friend, Lyn Yeager; and to anyone
           who has ever suffered a loss to a chronic illness

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