"i don't suppose there's a better metaphor for God
than the ocean,"
said the maine-man, from his perch in the sea.
he could be right, of course.
they seem to know that sort of thing here
on the margins.
its true what they say - that we can be roughest at our edges.
the maine shoreline here is sharp and scattered with stones;
its riddled with rocks, rough, and constantly reshaped by the tide.
nothing seems to suit this great northeast geography
quite like grey.
sky and stone, and ocean,
sometimes as far as you can see,
stand sentinel in colorless edgy grey.
but here where i sit, faced with fog
and the approaching tide,
i keep noticing the smallest bits of color,
hints of hope in this stern stone world.
seaglass - the world's broken refuse -
has resurfaced here at the margins in colorful mosaic.
what was once unwanted is here hunted.
with deafening divinity,
the ocean has worn these peices,
tumbled and tried them
until what was once rough along the edges
is now skin smooth.
maybe there is some God in your ocean, o maine,
that it can take such brokenness and
turn it into such beauty.