Meditations at Sea Level

I sit where the land gives out,
no higher ground to stand on.
The surf, wave after wave,
moves through my thoughts,
each pulse breaking the quiet.

The flame is low tonight.
I no longer ask it to grow taller,
only to hold still long enough
to show what the dark has kept.

I do not need the sea to answer.
I need to sit close enough
to hear my own thoughts
breaking like the surf.

Understanding arrived late,
like light from a vanished star,
long after it was gone.

I turn toward the sea,
as flame leans toward air.
The sea offers no reply.

The flame dims, then is gone.
I go back to the sea,
nothing left to ask.