This afternoon, for a moment,
I felt surrounded by prayers
when I wandered into a field of oysters
and saw the ruffle of upraised hands.
I walked among them, amazed.
What was it I almost let go of?
I followed a path of water
and sand dollars to find my way back.
It was pure gift,
the way seeing the spotted fawn
standing by the road, this morning, was.
from The Oyster Field
“Arising from a sequence of great losses, Lynn Martin’s poems walk straight into the deepest sorrow. There, face to face with the most terrifying state of not knowing, they expand outward to the farthest rim of affirmation–where the blue bowl holds everything.” –Noelle Oxenhandler, Essayist, The New Yorker
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