Knowing Nothing

I know nothing of the ocean.
I’ve visited the beach a few times
but learned nothing of the water’s ways,
only making the briefest introductions.
Who am I to write of its functions
or sum up all its wisdom in a phrase?

It doesn’t matter who I am.
The waves might freeze on the shore,
mirror of gray under a plundered sky
with shells to cradle up the mourning stars.
Walk with me in the heat of the shifting bars
before time shuts the window of my eyes.

Each color is a prophet;
this green-soaked algae gleaming life,
the sandy screeching joy on a gull’s beak,
against blue bellows of the all beyond.
Gray stone remaining when all is gone,
but then to be remade within a week.

The world molds words secured beyond my own,
poor wandering language after my own heart.
In all things, point to God and his creation.
No better can a man do with his art.