"The Weathered Rail"

The salt-scrubbed air, a ghost of the gale,

is the first thing I breathe that doesn't scream.

My hands, still tight on the weathered rail,

unfurl to the quiet of a waking dream.

The fury has passed, its dark throat hoarse,

and left behind this textured peace,

a new-born world on a different course.

The sky, once a bruise of indigo and rage,

is torn canvas now, shredded and bright.

Through the fissures, a silent, golden sage—

the sun—spills down its honeyed light.

It paints the remaining clouds in pearl and rose,

thick and layered, a plaster of hope

on the wounded blue where the thunder rose.

Below, the sea recedes with a gentle sigh,

leaving a tapestry on the shore.

The foam, a brilliant, sculpted white, lies high

in craggy drifts against my door.

The sand is carved in soft, wet reliefs,

and the dark, wet rocks wear a coat of sheen,

holding the memory of the ocean's griefs,

now placid, settled, stunningly serene.

My soul, a ship that was tossed and thrown,

finds its anchor in the quiet hum.

The world feels older, the seeds of chaos sown,

but the harvest is this peace, and I am numb

with the simple grace of standing here,

of seeing the light claim the land and sea,

the slow and steady calming of my fear,

etched into the light, and into me.