Boy, no more than 5, head bowed
to the sound of waves beating against sand behind him,
unaffected, focused as only a 5 year old can on an individual
grain of sand.
Looking for the perfect rock,
smooth and flat on both sides, to skim the water’s skin,
tame the tide, the miracle of Jesus, skipping on water, till
losing focus and sinking into the drink.
A baby’s hand picks up a stone, slightly flawed on one side,
soft as his own cheek on the other, and readies to throw.
Today the water proves too powerful
and the stone slices straight through meaty waves
to rest like Lazarus at the ocean’s unseen scripture.
Until the tide brings it back to rest on the shore,
to wait for the next set of hands
to set it free.
cottonbombs 