She turns them over in her slow hands,
as did the sea sending them to her;
broken bits from the mazarine maze,
they are the calmest things on this sand.
They unbroken children splash and shout,
rough as surf, gay as their nesting towels.
But she plays soberly with the sea's
small change and hums back to it its slow vowels.
The title of this poem completely dictates the way in which one reads the poem. Without the title, and the knowledge that the child is somehow different, the poem might seem like an account of an overly thoughtful child. To me as a writer, this poem is a reminder to choose my titles carefully, knowing that they dictate the terms on which the reader reads the poem.
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