Stone Hard Beauty
Wave clamber to the shore, softness after the storm.
The sky is dark and uneven,
Here and there, driftwood litters the beach.
You walk to the edge of dampness. You sit,
glad for the nothingness, the emptiness,
a place to pour yourself out without thinking.
There are stones at the water’s edge. Black ones. White ones.
You pick one up. A white one. You feel its texture,
smooth from the sea, yet organic, a rippled surface.
You hold the stone, almost absently.
You have come here to pray, not with words,
but with your heart, trusting your God,
the great surgeon to remove the madness,
the distractions, fears and flotsam.
to whittle you away once more
and make you
a thing of stone hard beauty,
soft and as unpredictable as the sea.
About this poem.
I am missing the ocean. Soon it will be the off season, and I will go.