Water Hitting Sand and Stone

The sound of the ocean feeds me
as I walk, again, at the edge of the world.
This water is like a Minnesota pasture at twilight,

illuminating my wrath
and then washing all anger
out to sea.

I become a ghost in the mist of of all I am
walking over the sand and discerning the mysterious tides.

It is sometimes enough to steal words from the mouths of others
and realize what is lost in that theft,

but to watch others profit from my interruptions,
to enslave poets,
and destroy the science of all learning
is more
than anyone can stand by
and silently witness
the erosion of the seaweed garments
left out to dry.

I gently place my list of hurts into a small bottle tonight
and carefully let the glass float away into the moonlight
and the waves.

I place the damaged hope into that tiny vessel
and let her drift away with all the disappointment
for some new land that can heal us.

The crashing sound of water hitting the sand and stone
will be enough for this day
and keep me praying for the wisdom
to stay with tiny particles of the elements
stuck to the bottoms of my salty feet.