This is What it Means to Be Alive

At low tide the edge of the waves is like a piece of lace

Thrown up on the sand and snatched away before the pattern can be deciphered.

The waves break one hundred yards off shore,

One right after another in steady succession.

The rocks are black, with black shadows

Hardly distinguishable from the substance of the rocks themselves.

At high tide the waves crash against the rocks

Flinging foam into the air, covering rocks and shadows alike.

The white rolling foam surges over the beach and under the boardwalk.

The sky is filled with stars, an orange moon hovers above the horizon.

The moon is calm; the sea is raging.

I stand on the boardwalk and face the waves, ten feet high, racing towards me.

The wind blows spray in my face,

My clothes are drenched. I shout for joy, but my voice is lost in the sound of the surf

Breaking relentlessly on the shore.

This is what it means to be alive:

Insignificant, powerless, alone with God.

© 2020 John Andrew Gallery 

 

Photograph by Wyatt Gallery