Being There

It lies
entwined with the gull’s wing
in pink seastring
among polished shellflakes
where the dog inspects the ocean’s rip
and the children tag along.

It sits
beside you with the waves’ murmur
as ever-renewing current speaks
of voices long ago which said,
Here shall you go; no further.
And it hums
in the morning wind which blows
skeletal details
like tumbleweed over
the criss cross of the sand.

A gift.


Do not mistake the fold for where we live:
It overlaps the outside and the in,
Suturing together, and it binds
What otherwise would float and duck and dive
In nexus-waves of incompleteness. Yes:
It’s true that we are nothing if our minds
Are not caught up in Being’s dance. The less
We live to others, then the less we live.
Still, there’s an Other who directs the dance:
He holds it, total, in its flux and flow;
It moves and waves and changes ever more.
The being that is truest and most sure
Yet many-pleated – life par excellence –
Dwells in the folds of His eternal now.