I do not need to see the ocean—
It is enough to just sit here,
where the waves land,
back against the patience of stone,
as waves fumble into the shore—
a quiet gathering of salt and foam.

The air thickens with brine,
weaving itself into my lungs—
seeping into the lines of my hands.
I taste it—in the hollow found
between my thoughts,
where words begin even before
they have been given letters
to stitch together.

I am not looking to surrender—
just to let something greater than myself
move through me, willingly.
I let the tide write its own language
against my skin, against the silence
that beckons me, making me
part of it all.

This is how a poet listens—
not with tired eyes or hands,
just the slow inhale of salty mist,
and the knowing that words will come
only after the waves have spoken.

Here as I sit, leaning gently
against my favorite boulder.