Full moon floats in morning pink streaks above the sea.

The blushing sun courting Her back to the night

as dawn cracks the east sky. 

Today She lingers on the west horizon

to be seen in equanimity before fire dominates the day.

Fresh born waves crash themselves high upon the rocks stained

 by the patient salt of Earth- 

spraying themselves towards Her as if competing

to fill the slate silver craters of wisdom 

from which they poured forth.

One lone white crane lands at my feet to witness this

full fledged reenactment of the first marriage.

As though he was just flying through

and an arm of shoreline reached out and pulled him to the ground.

Because this morning, this moment 

needs the symbolic presence of a white wing.

Precious metal rich black sand, a backdrop for the birthing light, sucks shadow from my bones.

And I allow my ear to hear the wind’s vow 

to steward change, redirect what was lost at sea, so often

by way of a mighty storm

I am suspended inside a wrinkle in time

ironing itself out under my feet- by my feet’s faithful fortitude.

And, for a brief moment I sense the white wing

is a messenger sent to lay a fresh birthed path

in my outstretched arms shaped like an empty chalice

that has emptied itself of all poisons.

Arms that have surrendered the weight of family fate

and let the story go.