Water running over stones
makes a subtle kind of music
as it wears the hardness down.
Recognizing my own heartlessness,
the fruit of habitual self-absorption,
made me suddenly stop and weep.
The sound of these tears
flowing freely down my cheeks
is Your music, and why death is beautiful,
not because it does not exist, it does —
just not at all as we’ve imagined.
It is the softly piercing music
within an ancient length of driftwood
that once washed up on the shore, now
become a bone-white log that reaches up
from its bed of sand to support my weight
as I swing in the euphoric beach bliss
of this polymorphous moment.
When I finally come to rest
I press my lips to its smooth skin,
as if it were You, as if it were God,
and somehow then it kisses back,
as if to say, “I am.”