Threshold of Tides

The ocean pauses

at the lip of its own body,

a gleam of salt trembling

before surrender.

Waves arch like backs

just before bowing,

each crest listening

for the signal of the moon.

The tide’s pulse falters—

then gathers,

the hush before a hymn.

Driftwood stiffens,

barnacles grip tighter,

even the gulls

wheel lower,

waiting for the pull.

The shore does not move,

but waits with open hands.

Sand grains shift

as if rehearsing departure,

ready to scatter

when the surge begins.