sea pearls

I thought it unsafe to be delicate. and so I was
not that for many daytimes.

with years of your love safety I turned back to small.
I took untidy gravity and shucked it.

thus found myself swimming a named stroke.
I wore uneven pearls.

my young appearing wrist took from them
thin pink light,

whose holiness came down
from an already fallen moon
of prior night.

now my arms are small as they were
when I weighed less than diploma skin.

I look down at my hands,
these years in them, upon them,
mother's hands.

I take home how I feel
about the line of small sequential and uneven beauty
that belongs
astride the tough strong strand
invisible in function.