The Ocean Is Vast and It Waits

I was a child from Cleveland who grew up in New Jersey where I left my innocence a lifetime ago; an hour from New York, an hour from Philadelphia and an hour from the ocean's embrace. 

The ocean is vast and it waits, an endless tapestry of shimmering blues and greens, whispering secrets to the shore. Its depths, shrouded in mystery, cradle the dreams of sailors long gone and the sighs of forgotten lovers. Each wave, a gentle caress of foam and salt, lingers on the sand as if to remind us that time is but a fleeting illusion. The horizon stretches endlessly, inviting us to lose ourselves there. 

Beneath the surface life dances in harmony, a symphony of colors and forms, patient and eternal, echoing the heartbeat of a world that exists both within and beyond our senses. A sentinel of stories yet untold, the briny deep beckons us to dive deeper.

How small we become while standing on this shoreline. Even the marks we leave behind are fleeting. In these moments, the weight we carry feels lighter as the vastness murmurs that everything is temporary and we but a small, yet beautiful part of a much larger whole.

* * * 

Tracks in the Sand

I turn to see my footprints in the sand

as wave after wave rolls in.

Now, here I stand, observing.

And though my footsteps be almost gone

they remain, and perchance someone will follow.

And if someone sees my kneeprints

(suspecting I had stopped to pray)

would I have to tell them

that I'd only stopped along

the way to pick up shells?

Yet, even on our knees with tiny shells

there is great glory

and a doorway out of ourselves.

Puerto Rico, 1979