April 20, 2021

every little thing feels the tide of renewal

Even the seaweed is in the throes of a do-over.
You wouldn’t know, standing there in the pickled stink of it,
the way it looks so done in, a wool blanket pelted all winter
with various throttles of water. How tired and unseemly,
groaning under its thickened weight, desiccated by age.
You’ve felt it, too, the heartless ravages of time, a part of you
buckled by all that humility your body has been tasked to carry.
The beach reeks of surrender. The decay is gratuitous. And yet,
as you walk, the latticed limbs of it soften under your steps,
and it feels like something is coming awake, and it smells of forgiveness.