Between the Day

021This Louis Ting poem had a life of only two hours. Written in the wet sand at low tide on Lighthouse Point, the tide soon claimed it as its own.


Cloaked in gray,

the world lay between decisions,

when silence is broken

by birds

singing what composers have chased

but could never hope to achieve:

simple perfection.


The sun rises with fiery paints

burning upon rippling waters,

golden, flickering light

dancing through the ocean’s waves.


The embrace of silence

gives way to the waiting arms of morning

as stars caught in the

cupped, gray palm of evening, retreat west,

until it is again their time

to blanket the world in its slumber.


A walk along the dark, lonely sand,

the tide whispers to you

its secrets that

you try desperately to understand.

The waves curl in,

and then retreat

with running pebbles,

scurrying back into the sea.


In clumps of

seaweed and rocks,

treasures wait for discovery.

Your only competition,

a gull who’s found his fill.

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