An Ode to an Atlantic Sunrise

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. “The Lord is my portion,” says my soul, “therefore I will hope in him.”

Lamentations 3:22-24

The bright sun rays glisten upon the water 
as the north wind blows her chilly ocean breeze.
The whimsical clouds act as reflectors in the sky, 
and the vibrant orange backdrop is dotted 
with a flutter of birds hunting at first light.

The tide ebbs and flows with the waning and waxing of the moon,
defining the end of a season 
by engulfing the smooth ground in salty blue.
The tug of gravity pulls on the heartstrings of the past,
oscillating with fresh currents crashing into the future.

Highs and lows come in abundance like the surf meeting the land.
The shore is unsullied, pristine, and recently manicured by the sea
until footprints mangle and mar her canvas.

The water is too cold to enter, even for my big toe.
There are a few brave souls;
like the kid on vacation who has been double-dog dared to do it 
and the cold plunge enthusiast with a new resolution.

With cold cheeks and warm hearts, hand in hand, we walk.
Thinking and talking, reflecting on yesterday, and dreaming of tomorrow.
The crest of a wave touches the shoreline,
creating a blank slate and leaving the beach born anew.
There is peace in being present. There is love in the sunrise.

Absorbed in a search for the perfect shell, 
we miss the gaze of a passerby until we hear 
the chime of the day, “Happy New Year!” 

Looking up just long enough to return the greeting,
a pearly iridescence catches my eye.
The nautical vastness has offered up 
what was once a cozy home that became too crowded,
marked with a unique design of swirling growth rings.
No two are the same.

But, alas, all the seashells are broken, crushed by the waves.
Growth and change are inevitable. 
Another circle of life, another trip around the sun. 

Just as they have for centuries, 
the shells grind down into rough pebbles and then finer still 
until they become the beach surface as we know it, 
innumerable and infinite like the sands of time.

Nature is simple, but creation is complex.
It is a delicate balance, but equilibrium is found in the here and now.

Poetry Type: Ode, Prose

An Ode written in response to the W3 Prompt #140.