Walking into the ocean
the cold bites toes and ankles.
Sand is ripped from footprint
in the ebb and flow of surf
even at an inch’s depth
Pushing on, each wave becomes a body blow. a
thud on the belly
a crash on the chest.
The eighth, the biggest, pushes me
back a pace or two.
Best to lunge over or
dive under, through
water, suspended sand and murky foam.
This is what it is to face
the One who was and is and is to come.
This is what it is to face the Creator
who comes in Spirit and storm.
if this is what it is to face,
maybe I am facing wrongly.
In the surf there is no
question. The journey out allows the return;
what seemed like infinite
resistance, is now propelling power.
Let me turn my back,
not in disrespect, but in true alignment;
and speed me along the new forward,
my old backward.
Jo Hurst reads the poem (download MP3)
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