Solstice Sea

More about Solstice Sea

Did I reach out into the sea
or did the sea reach into me?
When I met the sea where the ocean and the land intermingle,
under the tall, golden weight of the Solstice sky,
the line between where I ended and the tide began
simply ceased to hold.
It was not a collision, but a quiet exchange of weight.
The foam washed over the tide-line,
pulling the day’s heavy noise out into the deep,
leaving behind an immense, blue stillness
that settled straight into the marrow.
A cold salt light took root behind the ribs.
For days after, the shore refused to leave the room.
The rhythm of the blood stayed matched to the swell,
undulating with the slow, unhurried breath of the abyss.
When the hand moved to capture a form,
it was not thought that guided the line,
but the memory of water ... the soft sweep of a ray gliding through shadow,
the strange, incandescent pulse of deep-sea life,
the silent architecture of shells shaped by pressure and time.
The mind had become a tidal pool,
holding the creatures of the dark in clear, steady light.
Every visual lingering on the page was an echo of that meeting,
a physical imprint left by an invisible wave.
Perhaps there was no reaching at all.
Perhaps the ocean merely recognized itself in me in a quiet frame,
and left its ghost in the salt on my skin.