The Drowning

Each wave passes over like a year of life,
complete in itself, then gone.
The sailor counts them as prayers.

Salt enters the mouth that once spoke
of destinations, of home.
The body knows before the mind:
this is a different kind of arrival.

Memory surfaces,unexpected, vivid,
a child's hand in his, the weight of a cup of coffee,
his mother's voice calling from another room.
Small ordinaries that now reveal themselves
as the truest currency.

The sea is neither cruel nor kind
as it accepts him. It simply continues
its ancient conversation with the moon.

Light filters down, wavering, beautiful.
Strange how the drowning mind notices beauty still.
As if the soul, preparing its departure,
wants one last confirmation
that this world, even in leaving,
was worth the brief belonging.