Dance of the Whitecaps
Waves crash
salty spray touches her face.
She blinks, unseeing.
Her eyes stare into the murky depths
far beyond the shore.
Whitecaps dance
a reminder of the past
when she danced,
careless and free,
riding the crest of every wave.
Fearless.
Strong.
Beautiful in her determination to outrace the waves.
The largest wave sweeps toward her
crashing around her legs
showering her with bits of broken shells
and seaweed.
A broken sand dollar brushes her toes
as the wave recedes.
She picks it up and holds it gently,
contemplating the broken dreams.
She rubs her thumb over the crumbling white life,
tracing the remnants of the pattern
that used to be.
One futile tear escapes
travelling down her cheek
salty fluid mixing
with salty fluid.
It splashes onto the broken shell,
blurring her vision
clearing her vision
so that the pattern appears whole.
She startles and blinks.
Realization.
Hope.
She steps back onto clinging wet sand,
her foot nudging something stuck there.
She bends, white skirt whipping around her wet legs,
molding to her as she reaches down and gently picks up
another life.
Unbroken.
A new pattern.
In awe she turns it over,
watching the miniscule fibers on the brown underside
move,
searching for the life-giving water.
She holds the two sand dollars,
turning them over in her hands.
The old
ruined dreams
broken, crumbling remnants.
The new
visions
whole, alive, reaching out.
She pockets the crumbling, ruined sand dollar.
A reminder of dreams
life
hope.
She smiles.
She steps back again,
and draws her arm back,
flinging the whole sand dollar back into the ocean.
It splashes and slides beneath the whitecaps that dance.
A reminder of dreams,
life
strength
hope.
Those who complain the sun has gone out of their world
have obviously never danced in the rain.
And those who were seen dancing
were thought to be insane
by those who could not hear the music.
- Friedrich Nietzsche
 
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