Barnacle Harvest

When the sun beckoned, I hit the road
on a 10 speed bike bound for a park with sandy shores.
Waded 'round the mangroves to find a swampy trail,
and off I trod to the barnacles' haven.

I deposited my taunts at empty barbecues
where the kids' cries of "You nerd you!"
would cook away while I strode along the trail.

Along the way, I tiptoed toward the danger
of crabs, spiders and shady-faced strangers
wanting to wreck my journey to the barnacle lands.
"Shoo!" I'd hiss in my silent whispers.

Plodding down the trail, I climbed over
fallen Aussie pines bound to kiss their rash on me.
I'd take the risk to reach the shelled leechers.

As I pawed through webs and mangrove leaves,
I abandoned the drama invading my school days;
why did they envy my academic prowess?

Finding an embraced shoreline, I stopped
and grabbed a mangrove seed pod long and green.
When no one else was looking, I wrote out my plea:
"Take these worries and wash them away with the tides."

I scrawled the latest pairings destined to fail
in the sugar sands where they could be flushed out of me.
My wishes and fears stayed in those enclosed shores,
and I tossed the pod into the waters.

Then I reached my tree rife with white cones-my barnacles!
Latched on exposed roots of an Aussie pine,
I risked the red, itchy snake slithering up my arms
to grab the tiny crustaceans in my barnacle harvest.

With care, I slid them off the dry root and into my hand
to be dumped in my stashed Ziploc baggie-just in time for show and tell!
I already heard the chants of "Suck up! Suck up!" from my classmates' mouths,
but I knew I could return to these lapping waters and shaded sands.
Until then, I had to go home.