Give Away

“Listen,” I said to the sea when last we spoke,
the pearly day slicking her sparkle into humor,
wind slack and leaving her bereft of playmates
but me,

“Listen,” I said, “I am not
stable enough
juicy enough
powerful enough
compassionate enough
creative enough
wise enough
divine enough.”

“Go on,” she said as she danced around my ankles.
“Say it,” she said as she smiled and pulled away.

“Look,” I said to the sea, pointing
to those that were not me, but where I saw enough.
“See his strength; her rhythm and flow; her daring;
his wide-open heart hugging life in tight;
her precious voice; her sight into soul;
and this divinity that I should love, swim in,
drown myself in always.”

“Here,” she said, “take this part of me I give without struggle,”
placing a spiny shell onto a warm tan platter of sand.
“I am unconcerned about my wholeness, beauty or use,
my truth, my insight or wisdom.” And there it was, placed;

to itself not known as what I saw, but to me, the other:
a gift of pure grace.

— VH McKinnie

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