Mid-tide

Every day, without effort,
the tide flows out
from beneath Falls Bridge.
It has its own pulse,
one that is pulled
by tidal currents
and propelled seaward.
From the standstill of mid-tide
it turns without thought
and takes its bearings
from a lunar pilot,
stirring calm aquamarine
into white water raging.

As it retreats
from the shore,
its lip retracts
from rocky promontories,
revealing kelp tresses
and caches of mussels
parched and thirsting
for sea juices.
Along sandy stretches
a booty chest is exposed--
sandollars, sea glass, periwinkles, slipper shells
an occasional four-legged star fish.
Heaved from the depths,
they wait to be plucked
by searching fingers,
stuck into linty pockets
or Shop 'n Save bags,
then dried and displayed
in a jar on a table
or made into earrings
that dangle from pulsing lobes.

Twelve hours hence,
as if at some silent signal,
the ocean inhales deeply.
Beneath Falls Bridge
water slows to a gentle swirl
then hovers
before turning inward
back to shore
to overflow tidal pools
and flow over kelp headresses
and barnacled boulders,
rising, rising.

The beach glitterati
that escaped the purvey
of beachcombers,
heave a collective sigh
as salt water tentacles
snatch them safely seaward
for another tide's time.
Sunbathers move towels back, back,
then stand,
shake out the day's belongings
and head homeward
as the sea pulls its covers
to the shore's neck.

My life waits at mid-tide,
suspended
between certainty and doubt--
hope and resignation--
presence and absence--
perseverance and letting go.

My life is swirling,
gently circling,
idling in flat water,
lacking lunar guidance.

Will it empty seaward
a final time?
Trickle inward
to fill niches
of soul and heart?
Rise up and rush over me
in a raging passion
that requites need?

It is the aimlessness
of mid-tide
that is difficult
to bear.
It foments questions
unanswerable
before tide's end.