At Lunar Low Tide – by Heather Mirassou

The night exhales along the breathing shore,
tide loosening its silvered seams.
Salt rocks remember older names
than those we give to longing.
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon
holds nothing back.
Light drifts across her skin
in slow devotion,
a hush taught only by distance.
Stars hover, while clouds learn restraint.
I stand emptied by the listening dark,
heart tuned to the pull and release.
Foam speaks once, then repeats itself.
Morning waits, patient and undone.