Shekinah Glory

Secret Beach

Secret Beach

Perhaps our shadows
weren’t meant for this place,
cast like tramps across
the sand’s uneven mix
of specs, rocks and shell.
Homes are left empty
by a lunar pull
as God’s redemption.
Her collection of
Whelk’s spiral shells clink
together with clam’s
rippled lips nestled
in a breast pocket.
Hermit to Hermit,
brittle in the sun,
I zig zag ahead
until their crushing
collapse brings her near
laughing, pressing close
against my right hip.
Slipping tiny hands
around a finger,
she pulls me forward
like the tide’s exit
that has extended
our hidden playground.


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