In the sound of surf, that shared memory
which echoes endlessly for the both of us,
you strain to hear my voice, swallowed
it seems by the tidal wave that washed me
away from you and also from myself.

I am no more those carefree grains of sand
slipping through your hands, molded
into a sandcastle masterpiece. I appear
worn and thin, frail, brittle, rough
’round the edges, etched with ripples.

Look at me. Hold me and discover
who I am. You will see the smooth holes,
missing pieces you miss in the me you remember,
loved perhaps. But God, who rules the seas
in mystery, works through suffering.

Every day I feel those absent parts of me;
but they have become a compass, pointing
me always back to Source of all I am
and ever hoped to be. If you look closely
and hold me ever so gently, you’ll find

The imprint of a feathered flower, fragile
petals emanating from a star-shaped center.
It is not perfect, and you must look past
the uneven surface into the soul of me
to see God’s mark of beauty; nevertheless,

It’s there – majestic mark of grace, bold pattern
of purpose, proof of my belonging to eternity.
Before you go, listen to the rush of my heart’s river,
forged anew from the largest hole which points
true north and sings of the sea and you.