In a fog of dreaming I drift towards the day I fell asleep, hidden on the sloping dune of The Great Lake's face. Before the slip of consciousness, a cross of seagrass planted at my feet. The sand, my cradle. Sky, my spread. And in my hands, a chaplet of shells and stones. How watery hymns loosen the knots!
untangled in front of the sea - rosary hands
Waking does not mean a fading of the sea. Nor does it lessen the salty sting in the eyes. Instead, the currents of the world pass through as they must, taking only what is ready to go. My sorrow has ripened. Now shame is on its way passed. Past?
As a certain clarity threatens to settle the matter, dreaming need not quarrel for life or truth or endings. Wake and dream. Sea and stone. It is the “or” that slips away into the holy flame of sunset.
parlay wagered on infinite waves
a tendered soul to dream and wake