Day 8: Write about a favourite childhood memory spent in nature.

The Love of It All

Dad pushes his easel into the sand.
He prefers damp sand –
keeps the easel steady, he says,

but it’s high tide, so he’s up near the dunes

up near the driftwood that’s smooth
as the back of Granny’s hands,
and crabgrass that pokes your toes.

Dad loves to paint. I’m eight. I love Dad.

He squeezes the metal tubes of paint,
a spurt of green, some grey, and
always a long line of cobalt blue.

I love cobalt blue, almost as much as I love Dad.

My shoes and socks off,
and I race into the curl and break of waves.
It’s icy cold. It always is.

The scent of the sea hits the back of my throat.

Today, it’s tangy. Metallic, like when you lick
a copper penny. Wakes you up. You…