Shoreline

Mollusk holes
burst like the sizzle
of morning bacon to mar
a smoothness that was there
a moment ago.

The colony of coquina
panics in its exposure,
strains indelicate feet
to dig back under, away
from limicolous beak

while the husks of the others
float then settle, settle, float
their beauty splayed, enhanced
in death. The shells are butterflies
striate and multicolor, around my ankles.

Unquelled, tidewater rushes back, no
mere bygone echo, but reaching
further than what’s expected, transforming
a digging into a lifting as the bivalves
swash and float toward the next.

My feet burrow into ancient sediment.
I want to kneel upon this history.
My choice is to strain or move
with creature surrender.
I remember – I know

the beginning
the now
the end.

To My Ocean

I owe you a poem
that honors your spray crash
path to sun and moon and possibility.
That beats to your pounding rhythm
unmistakable and demanding

Always child to you,
my aloof, watchful Companion,
this offering is yours, like everything
else, longing to rush back into
your deep to be pounded

and smoothed and perfected
as deep calls to deep.
Your rhythm unmistakable
and demanding,
I hear it always.