You wait for sun’s bright gems along the tide
to spell in liquid starfields “day is done,”
that you might worship at the waterside
with one schooled anthem where the eddies run
to meet the shore as though to seize with pain
one tender last farewell and clasp the hand
of earth to thus protest their love in vain;
for no one weds the vastness of the land.
And where the air leaps up to echo sound,
no sound above the stamping of the waves
is heard, save crunching pebbles on the ground,
or sighs with every breath your moment saves.
For you are caught within the lifting thrall
of nature passing by and strewing boons
on everyone, as though before the fall,
and sacramenting shoreline, beach and dunes.
And on the road no traveler is exempt
from beauty, though his wearied bones cry out.
The haughty with a chortle may attempt
to cast aspersions, ridicule or doubt
on beauty as it seethes immense below,
but all will tremble at the ocean’s might
for nothing lies between us and death’s blow
in waves where we may mount our futile fight.
No wonder then that men have worshiped here
attempting to appease the water gods,
or begged volcanoes to assuage their fear,
or prayed to phantoms to reduce the odds
of woe from sudden hail upon their crops.
The author of all nature sits above
and manifests his might in tiny drops.
That power lies not in terror but in love.