Evening Benediction at the Tide

 

The tide returns in sculpted prayers

over broken shells,

etching covenant beneath gull-scarred skies.

I press my palm to driftwood—

a liturgy in grain, fibers carved by centuries

of salt and forgiveness.

Salt water heals old fractures in the stones,

and on their ancient skin I lay down my grief,

each wave a footnote of mercy.

 

Bless this shore with memory’s quiet grace,

that what we cast away may rise again

in the arc of dawn’s unbroken promise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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