Seedbank of Light

At low tide the harbor shows its bones, old pylons freckled with salt and rust. A child cups water and keeps it dark, waiting for the slow ignition of plankton.

Beneath, the seafloor is a library of touch, each shell a fingertip, each stone a sealed vow. The waves erase names, then write them again in a script of foam the wind can read.

Night brings a soft industry of glow, tiny lanterns folding and unfolding with the current. We carry our histories like sand in our shoes, bright grains that cling and still sing.

Far out, the horizon is a quiet hinge. A boat moves, stitching the sky to the sea. Its wake opens and closes behind it, a mouth speaking light into the dark.