The morning opened like a hymn—waves rising in rhythm with the light, sky brushed in soft fire and breathless blue. Each color seemed to awaken from a dream, spilling across the water in slow revelation. The sea, alive and infinite, flung itself against the rocks as if to greet the sun, while the wind carried whispers from a world just beginning again. In that radiant quiet, time dissolved—only the ocean remained, pulsing with grace, holding the dawn like a secret it would never tell.
The world felt tender in that hour, suspended between ebb and becoming. The scent of salt mingled with the promise of renewal, and every cresting wave spoke of endurance—how beauty survives the storm, how light insists on returning. I stood still within it all, a witness to the sacred conversation between sea and sky, where the quiet was not emptiness but something sacred and full—a kind of reverence, as if the world itself were quietly worshipping the beauty of what was happening.
Language Woven in Waves by Ocean Eversley
The tide gathers its voice,
a hymn rising through foam,
each wave a note of remembrance
for everything that has ever begun
and begun again.
Clouds drift like quiet muses,
their edges touched with flame,
the sea inhales their color
and exhales a shimmer of peace
that lingers on the air.
I watch the wind paint verses
across ever-shifting ripples,
the language of movement
written in silver and coral,
untranslated, but known.
Somewhere between stillness and surge
the heart learns to listen—
not for answers,
but for the rhythm
of what endures.
And when the first gull arcs outward,
its wings cutting light into song,
I feel the dawn open within me—
not as brightness,
but as belonging.