an armful of moments

1.

loose driftwood skeletons and

strands of gray moss

along the beach.

rainwater falling through a creek,

pulled from sky to basin,

cutting a thin branch

across rocks and firm sand before

losing itself in the sea;

a finger melting into heaven.

2.

you hear

the coming

of a wave.

a slow,

deep breath

rises until it meets

the rocks beneath your

feet and bursts, leaping into

a fine spray that bows the sunlight

and freckles the clinging mollusk shells

with gentle taps of white foam. straining for shore,

the sea burrows its gray fingers through moss-veiled

chasms, swelling tide pools with such generosity they overflow.

and in the brief moment before the tide’s next inhale,

the borders between pools become bridges,

granting the anemones, the starfish,

the bruise purple urchins each

a gamble at exploration.

then the brine recedes

and their choices

are locked.

until,

of course,

the next wave arrives.

you hear the coming of a wave.

3.

knot of wood,

a ripple frozen

in the current of the grain,

an echo of growing pains etched over

long, slow years of

stretching sunward.

now severed

and silked by saltwater brush,

half buried in sand,

the knot gazes up; an old

bruised eye

awaiting blindness.