Low Tide Logistics

I can't go down to the water today.

The sand is too heavy for my tired boots,

and the salt air has a jagged way

of pulling at the things I have for roots.

I lean on the railing, white with scale,

and watch the surf fold in on the beach.

It looks like frayed lace, gray and pale,

just a few inches beyond my reach.

Down in the rocks, where the kelp turns black,

a single sneaker is wedged in the stone.

It’s waiting for a foot that isn't coming back,

filling with silt and sitting alone.

I’ll stay up here where the wood is dry.

The tide is moving like a closing door.

There’s enough going on between the sea and sky

without me dragging my shadow across the floor.