Deep

To stand
on a spit of broken rock,
wind like an open hand
across an inland face,
hearing the whipcrack of waves,
the rush of gulls, a spate of wings,
the tenor of a lonely place—
this is something good and something great.

To know
every drop of brine
as a remnant of God, and
every fold and flow
of the ocean,
every taste of sand
and salt as bread and wine,
is to know devotion,
to be Elijah, buoyed along
by the strong water and wind,
the wild horses of the sea
dashing ahead
and laughing to me.


© 2005 J. Mark Reimer