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?