Walking alongside the Atlantic one morning last week, I saw how tides had created in the sand a pattern of infinite play that stretched as far inland as the ocean could reach. Underfoot they massaged my bare soles, that outer layer of my imagination, and set my senses spinning into the surf itself where anything is possible, the ocean herself the artist, the beach her fabric from which she might raise up the most magical creatures, the ones we hear as we fall asleep with the window open, the surf's voice singing its caravans of imaginary elephants thundering like freight trains, only to take to the sky like gulls when we rise from our beds in the morning to look, to verify, to go running out into the landscape of water kneaded signs, ocean
language for what goes on underneath
the eyes of moon and sun, whitecaps pulled to shore, reaching their lacy fingers toward where we lay in darkness, dreaming the earth back to its beginnings, for there is always more than one beginning. And always will be, as long as the ocean has its way with the sands we walk upon.
(with thanks to Magpie Tales)
(with thanks to Magpie Tales)
