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Evening Benediction at the Tide

The tide returns in

sculpted prayers over broken shells,

whispering covenant

beneath gull-scarred skies.

I press my palm to driftwood—

a liturgy in grain,

fibers carved by centuries

of salt and forgiveness.

Salt water heals

old fractures in the stones,

and in that ancient hush

I lay down my grief,

each wave a footnote of mercy.

.

Bless this shore with memory’s quiet grace, that what we cast away may rise again in the arc of dawn’s unbroken promise.