Who knows?
There could be buried treasure
From Spanish galleons storm-wrecked
Off this Carolina shore
Where I am beachwalking
This overcast morning.
There could be gold chains,
Silver platters, ingots of precious metal,
Buried in subterranean silt,
Below dolphin families now gliding,
Bottom-feeding and nurturing their young.

But this clouded morning
The peasant-pewter sky
Yields a different kind of light,
Light that rims each incoming wave and wavelet
With an incredible shoreline of silver,
Silver, silver...as far as the eye can see,
To the farthest cape on the horizon.
A treasure of purest silver gleaming
To satisfy the cruelest Queen of Castile,
Craving the bounty of Her New World,
While I, a commoner, can only experience
A transient hour of this rare light,
This bejeweled morning
Of unalloyed, elemental pleasure.

Stan Schuman
Department of Family Medicine