At the Edge of Evening

At the edge of evening
the sea opens its blue scripture,
wave after wave
writing itself against the shore
as if the world still believes
in tenderness.

The sun lingers low on the horizon,
a small golden ember
refusing to disappear too quickly,
while clouds drift above it
like thoughts too beautiful
to keep contained.

Foam gathers at my feet
in delicate white lace,
then slips back into the tide,
taking the weight of the day with it.
Even the wind feels softened here,
less interested in storms
than in reminding the water
how to sing.

And for one suspended moment
everything finds its balance—
light and motion,
sky and salt,
memory and breath.

The ocean does not ask
who I have been
or what I have carried.
It simply keeps arriving,
restless and radiant,
teaching me how to begin again
without losing myself.