What the Tide Leaves

All morning the sea has been returning things — a rope frayed to its last thread, a shoe without its pair.

The heron stands at the edge of what is certain, one leg lifted, waiting for the water to decide.

I have been carrying your name the way stone carries heat: slowly, invisibly, long after the sun moves on.

The sand holds every footprint until it doesn't. The foam says nothing, then says it again.

Whatever the tide takes, it takes completely. Whatever it gives back comes back changed.