Recount for me,
the succession of things.
When one wave ended,
others began:
dunes which bristled with grass,
petals pressed by quadrants,
innumerable shells.
Our task –
shared by aspirant busloads –
was to count and mark
and chart a census
of snails.
Next year, same season,
our teacher would wax
before our siblings.
We had passed
that stage – a wave gone out.
Would you recount
the succession
of things?
