The Shore

I am these waters,
swept in all its braids,
a brushstroke of the gliding moon.

I am its child tracing,
building ruins in the sand
with voiceless ink.

I am the canvas
for the hand print and
its archive.

I am the oysters shell,
and its pearl, but
I am not reason.

I am not the book
you read to know, nor
its binding.

I am the footprint
just before the wave.
The hope of tread,

of knowing for a moment
the hand is near, and
saying goodbye forever.

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