The sea stops arguing
with the shore.
Waves smooth their
Skirts into silence.
The body stills,
Yet forces unseen
Breathe on
Through the trees,
Through us
Through everything.
Grief has turned me
To salt, then air.
Worry is just a feather
In the storm.
We rest at last in what
Just Is,
Simple. Sufficient.
While held by the hands
That gather clouds and light.
Cloudia Charters