So Does Time

Smell the sea and feel the sky … 
-- Van Morrison

There’s a moment before a wave breaks
when sunlight cuts through the water:
gold, green, and ghost gray
all at once.
Kelp hangs, 
suspended,
like old-fashioned sepia silhouettes.
Murky translucence.
Ocean water has that property.

So does time.

Waves break
one after another
after another,
after another,
after another. 
It’s a rhythm I have come to know well. 
This isn’t my first visit here.

Water surges and retreats relentlessly,
and like a patient scultor, it
smooths sand,
shapes shells, 
softens glass.
Proof of the ocean’s slow artistry.
Change is happening right before my eyes.
And while this whole process seems gradual,
it will happen all too quickly for my taste.

Like how you were once a child and now you’re a man.

The tide spills seatangle on the shore,
and warm saltwater pools at my ankles. 
White seafoam tumbles when the breeze nudges it along;
I appreciate its slower pace.

The sun will sink as the day exhales.
Blue becomes purple becomes an argent glow,
and twilight’s fingers will swirl cool air.

Your silhouette blurs in the hazy mist,
and echoes of boyhood laughter linger in the steady voice of a man.
You’re there on the horizon -- 
giggles still small, shoulders already broadened.

I breathe in
and out
and in again
and taste the sweet and salty air 
of time.