I went down to the edge of the sea,
where the world hushes and the sky kneels low
not seeking answers, only stillness.
But there, amid the rhythm of the waves,
I found a voice too ancient to name.
Each wave spoke in psalms,
not of thunder, but of grace
rolling forward with the patience of eternity,
retreating like a whispered prayer
too sacred to stay upon the tongue.
The ocean did not preach.
It pulsed with divinity.
In its vast, breathing expanse,
I felt the sigh of a presence
that needed no altar, only awe.
And the sand
O, the sand
a billion tiny miracles beneath my feet,
each grain a story sculpted by time,
each a universe cradled in silence.
Not forgotten, but known.
There, where seafoam kisses skin
and salt baptizes the soul,
I saw no burning bush, no thunderclap,
only the gentle insistence
that God is not far, but folded
into the folds of tide and shell,
present in the shimmer,
and the hush.
To find the holy,
one need not look up,
but down
to the gleam of a single shell,
to the hush between the waves,
to the miracle in every grain of sand.