Prose by the Gulf

(A poem written from a condo balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico)

Nutty coffee. Blue water gulf.
Salty cool breeze. Sun-warmed skin.
Squinty-eyed bright.
Rolling waves crash.
Up and down in my ears. Up and down.
Aqua-tan sandbars submerged.
Beachcombers on a fifty-five degree day.
Most in sweatshirts. The adventurous
in swimming trunks, shirtless.
Thermal jeans on my legs soaking
solar rays. I feel peace today.
I feel joy right now.
This moment in time, an island all to myself.
Well, God and me.
A brief paradise of the mind.
A retreat in my heart.
Not so much a sabbatical, but for sure
a sanctuary. More than a siesta.
Freedom of soul.
My oldest son sits next to me.
What’s passing through his teenage mind?
I don’t know, but I know it’s good.
His dreams hover above the water
spread before his eyes.

Mountains and oceans have a way of reflecting our dreams.
Timeless. Endless.
They remind us, teach us, to dream bigger and beyond what our minds can see.
We turn to greatness to pursue peace and paradise.
We are turning to God.

“since what may be known about God is plain to them, because God has made it plain to them. For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse.”
— Romans 1:19-20, The Bible

Missing the Pointe

My life is fleeting before me, but I pause this morning to capture the beauty and grace before my very eyes, frame by frame, but not mechanical like a movie projector. Flowing.

I watch my 13 year-old daughter wrap the black ribbons around her ankles. Her feet positioned just so as she ties each knot, accepting the worn pointe shoes molding to her gentle feet. Delicate.

I’m fighting back tears, because I cannot count the days—no, the weeks—since I noticed her in this way. Her beauty. Her passion. She is a work of art.

The way she inches her pointed toes, in step, across the floor. What balance she maintains for such a young girl, not quite a young woman. No, she is a young woman. I haven’t accepted this yet. Aching.

But her spins beckon me. I follow, returning to the stage where only our memories can dance. She in my arms, her toddler feet dangling as we twirl across the living room floor. Laughter.