There is wind-worn order to these perfect random works,
time-worn though ever shifting, each day, each night,
each tide leaving brushstrokes, each parade of breezes
sculpting sand and dune, leaving a thumbprint
of chilled night sky, or of the artistry of retreating water.
There is order even in the grasses that bind these dunes:
green runners, creating a vast net through dry sand,
sea oats, swaying in gentle dance with each gust,
scrub oaks pruned into rolling, tangled thickets,
a canopy under which life forms explosive patterns.
There is Godly design to this wide, soft transition where ocean
and shore make love, a constant dance, tides bringing gifts,
tides taking tokens, waves in endless, tumbling caress
cleaning the canvas, then composing a new image,
erasing footprints, burnishing shifting sands, leaving only
the patient tireless artistry of wind, of night, of tides.