by Jared Swenson
The sun melts into sea, painting
hills of warm poppies
on open sky.
Gulls glide through color in strings
of silhouetted wings
half-spread.
While Hope sings Halah in my head, waves
churn white and then extend
too thin over sand.
She kneels by the shore and she breaks
a branch of smooth driftwood
in a worn hand.
I think it will always be like this. I think God
will give us nothing but nets
and pure water.
