Thank you, Holy Father, for the light
that skims along the surface of the deep
in waves more true and terrible than those
that churn beneath its pulse, and for the foam
that bubbles lightly underneath the air
and sighs in little rings out on the sand.
Thank you for the tiny pointed prints
of sandpipers and seagulls, and the chance
to make footprints of our own, and castles too,
that melt away, but touch the waves and wind.
Thanksgiving: a sonnet
17 hours ago