Tender Things

Tender things are cosseted

In stratums of bone

Collected over years

And bound by their home.

Tender things are soft,

Formless and needy,

Peeking their heads

And quickly retreating.

Tender things look cold

And you’ll never touch

The warmth underneath

The shell is too much.

And as tides come and go

Over rocks dead of old

There’s no reason to leave now

With such tenderness to hold.

Maybe one day a ship

Will spew out its load

Of poison and debris

And make them let go.