The tide on the beach

is a slow, quiet speech.

You are here with me

to listen. No one can

speak like the sea.

Not even Grandfather

whose voice came down

from the mountain, filled

the valley so that his son,

our poor father, could

not utter even an echo.

 

The ocean has a different

cadence, measured by 

tides. Is there something

of God here? No, not that!

I have never understood

the language of Heaven,

and yet the stars speak

plainly enough for a child.

 

Who can understand this

whisper of water on sand?

You are here, listening;

for words, music, sounds

from the sea of our youth?

If I hold a shell up to your

ear will you tell me what you hear?