Sea Salt

I like to flirt

the edge of my skirt

against the frothing

mouth of the sea

where I come

to lean my weary ear

into the window of a

coral sunset

to hear its decree

My feet stand on ancient

shells and rocks

not one there

by accident

nor I

My grandmother used to

hold an old souvenir-shop

conch shell into my ear

with gnarled fingers

from working forty jobs

to feed two boys

We stood very still

in her tidy dijon kitchen

considering

the echo of the tomb

in the seashell

as it roared

and surged

with life

I had thought it magic

And suddenly

through decades

here I am,

my feet in salt water

I almost catch a drift of

the coffee baked walls

of my Buba's kitchen

in the briny sea air

where I am, again,

suspended in the

shushing song

of the waves

-- sonic ripples

from the song

of angels

Salt rises

to a misty swirl

and returns my hair

to its childhood curl -

tendrils by the

tender hands

of my Father

The clouds scroll by

like a music box melody

and the whisper of God

turns to a joyful swoon

as all of creation sings,

"Prepare Him Room!"

His symphony

rises around me

and in me

inviting me

into laughter

and running

The King!

My King!

He is coming!

He is coming!

“And behold, I am coming soon. Blessed is the one who keeps the words of the prophecy of this book.” Revelation 22:7