His shirt flagged in the wind,
One of the marks designating
Danger, riptides.
There was a lankness to his
Frame, an objectivity to the
Way he stood.
He did not blink as salt flew
In his eyes—unmoving as the
Tide lapped.
His shoulders were pinched,
As if clothesline pins held him
To the spot.
The seagulls bawked at his
Indecision, the sea welcoming
Him into its folds.
Was it the cold of the waves
That showed him the warmth
Of his body?
The life had grown dormant
Inside of him, but he felt it
Then, unfurling.
No one called out for him,
Voices were plastic bags,
Litter in the wind.
His unexplained cowardice
Was his saving grace, the
Treasure unseen.
Jesus' hand lays on my heart, giving me strength to keep moving.