Running

[kreichert]

A breeze freshens,
born of an unseen impulse,
like tears
that shimmer on the cusp of emotion.
Rising winds,
fluent in the language of boundaries,
draft waves upon the sea in cursive hand,
each a percussive antiphon
beseeching the spirit.

The words of the spirit
adorn the swells,
dulcet and luminous,
mounting each crest as sinuous grace,
and offering
the peace
of a following sea.