A Gift
by Bob Moore

We pull up to the coast,
we have only seconds
until the sun edges its way
above the horizon.

The sea is a coral blue
and waves are rolling, light and even,
more like the action of a lake.

We take a few photos,
then consider walking the beach.
The air is warm for March,
a soft wind on our skin.

We step down a cement staircase,
and notice the rivulets,
the patterns in the sand,
as if a spider had fashioned a web
the night before.

The waves tumble toward us,
as a ripple travels some distance,
launched by the drop of a stone.

We pick up pebbles,
one gray and shaped like a heart,
one opalesque, washed smooth and round.

I place one in your hand. You examine it,
roll it between your finger and thumb.

We pick up stones
that look like specked eggs.

We watch a man walking
with his best friend–
a patchwork of black and white fur.

We wonder what we've done
to luck upon a morning like this one,
to notice our senses heightened,
to notice each moment as it is.

We wonder how long we've come
to be walking on the sand on this day,
with our eyes and our hands
                and our hearts held open.



 


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