Susan wears a wide brimmed
hat of straw to keep off sun and rain.
She glows, she does not sweat.
She says to me she is not hot while I stand
Dripping, sticky, squint-eyed in the glare.
She arrives at dawn; her daughter
drops her off with hoes and rakes and digging
tools, but for them she is alone. At dusk
she will go home.

Here in Altoona Lagoon
Susan toils.
A tree, a bush, a tidy ring
of protective shells, one by one
in the hundreds now on that
hurricane ravaged ground, her passion
unfolds. A hole is dug, a slip is planted, water
carried, shells surround. One by one by one.

Susan plucks conch shells from the
water's edge, off of
a mountainous pile of empty discards - conch
meat now in the holds of boats - conch for
chowder, conch for fritters, oh sweet conch in
butter sauce, conch to pay the
fisherman's bills.

Every day she labors, now three
years of days, closer to the vision shining in
her eyes. She lets you in, she lets you see, her
hands reaching out over acres Her hands are stiff,
unyielding to the pain. Her hands are consecrated
by her dreams, and beautiful. She would laugh
to hear that said.

I come one day to get a perfect conch to give
and cannot disturb her holy circles,
the easy way, the faster way,
but wade in water to my waist,
slowly, slowly deeper in,
awed by Susan, reaching, planting,
working for love
in Altoona Lagoon.