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.