A Mark Upon the Sand
The sun's bravado shimmers upon the sea,
Foam, sand and self infused with light and heat.
Glorious display of strength and power.
But it is the moon that beckons.
Does she know me?
Temperate tug on earth by which she commmands
these waves to paddle gently against my bottom,
Is the same pull of monthly invitation,
to join her in the eternal cycle.
Moon, mysterious light of the night sky,
Sister in blood and water.
I reach out and lay a handprint upon the sand.
Little hand on this expanse of shore,
Your print lasts but a moment,
For moon and wave come and wash you back to sea.
There are few handprints that make
a lasting impression upon this stubborn earth,
But the wave that takes mine,
has had to reach its destination by detour
bypassing the tiny curve and subtle dent
of print in sand.
And if only for a moment,
I have altered the path of the sea.
It is said that the molecules
which formed the breath of Socrates,
still ride the currents of the breeze.
If I inhale deeply of this sweet salt air,
Shall I taste the wondrous words of Plato’s dialogue?
Shall my mouth mingle with the cry of Magdalene?
Shall I take upon my tongue the hopeful prayer
of an unknown mother?
I suck in greedily with my lungs and hold,
Turn my face to the sea and allow my breath
to explode upon the wind.
With hope that it shall be born upwards.
And perhaps, long after I have joined body to earth,
The moon shall know my kiss upon her face.
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