Kitsooki
Language-touched and meaning-laden, I comb beaches for words. Under this grain of sand, perhaps there is some bit of truth or pleasant lie, or perhaps it is under this one.
I comb beaches for words and hope that I find there some small treasure. A little story cove! A sand dollar of a poem! Some quip hidden beneath a half-buried shell! There, some beach-glass; when I look through it, will I spell out hymns in cloudy blue? If I scrub it against my shirt, will I edit away the cruft and leave behind some clearer song? "We are the wave-polished stones," I wrote, and one may hope that so too are our words.
I comb beaches for words and let the salt-tang breeze stain my sinuses with thoughts too heady for language yet. I let the static of the sea sing praises to the sky while I stand by and sway in time. I let the sun set.
Ah!— but there comes the next wave to wash away what language was there and deposit yet more.