What Remains

Walking alone along the shore
These days eternity no longer appeals to me
And so, unlike every other beachwalker this morning, I turn away from the horizon
And choose instead the staggering heights of Ballston’s dunes
Whose towering walls bestow some comfort
on a man that sees no hope ahead
Here in summer’s calm it is almost unfathomable the size and fury of the waves that formed these cliffs
But then, I have seen the power that even words contain
Unleashed truths like Poseidon’s fists
And just like that something that felt as solid as the ground on which we walk is swept away
At its best, life is a slow, persistent erosion
Six feet here, a year there
But then there are the storms
And here in July, standing beside these battered dunes it becomes apparent that this winter more was taken than can ever be restored