The shoreline is gray,
mostly pebbles.
In my shabby shorts,
floral tee,
I catch some late summer sun.

I should be thankful
that I still have a beach
but this is not
the hot-white sand
of my homeland.

A foreign country
makes itself known
to me in many ways,
not just the language,
not just the supermarket.

If I was five years younger,
I’d be lying on a blanket,
hair undone,
covered in oil,
looking out at the ocean,
wondering what lies beyond.

The surface is hard,
the color is somber,
now that I know.