I took my rest beside the tide, where the sea speaks in syntax only the body comprehends. There — a shard of sea-glass rested like a verb in a broken sentence, housed in a bivalve comma. I saw how the ocean edits—how it rounds the edges, curates the glint, and releases its punctuation to the patient shore. A wave rehearses nothing; it simply arrives, again and again, assured that its language is enough.
When I took this photograph, I did not wander to the coast for clarity but for rhythm. The grammar of tide and stone needs no correction, only attention. I saw pebbles nestled in the sand like consonants in an ancient line. Some smooth, some flecked with contradiction. They do not argue their place. They belong as they are—weathered, luminous, and speaking in dialects only the old sea knows how to hold.
So I framed this image as a kind of prayer— to praise what already understands its place. I have found that wisdom lives not only in discovering the meaning, but in admiring the arrangement. The coast, like a poem, offers us to listen to the beauty of the order in which things fall.
Poem: To Hold a Shard of Light
The sea puts out its fingers —
scattering the day’s old jewelry
across the sand,
as if time were generous.
A shell holds silence
like a well-made cup —
and inside, a sliver of glass,
smoothed by thought, and unafraid to shine.
The waves compose no sermons,
and the tide keeps perfect time.
Nothing rushes,
but everything arrives.
A stone is not ashamed
of how long it's been turning.
Its skin tells the truth —
quiet, and clear.
I picked up a phrase from the shore
and let it rest in my palm.
It said nothing.
And still, I understood.
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