Inside unblinking eyes, a mocking wave reveals the mantra of creation- sometimes exposing a soft blue shoulder, sometimes flicking a questioning toe, sometimes letting the wind peel her gossamer veil of froth.
Do we rush to the ocean’s edge, so the original mysteries can sing to us like finely tuned conch shells. Do we know that everything, that has any meaning, is tucked inside the damp crease of the horizon where the sky folds into the sea? Do we watch the tide waltz with the moon in a primal circadian rhythm that echoes inside our borrowed souls? If this is where it began, is this where it will end?
looking back at the waves
I see my footsteps