I wade the waters.
Underfoot the soft sand yields,
Sinking in deeper hollows. The hard waves
Beat at my knees with baseball bats.
If I press on now past knee, past thigh,
Pushing into the power,
Will I reach the New World on the other side,
Discover shining skies of beauty?
Or, overwhelmed, sink battered to the floor?
St. Columba, they say, used to wade
Into this powerful ocean,
Whether for penance or to grasp
Time on his own with God.
He was a holy man.
He never thought, I’m sure,
Of wading out into the deep
Until the sand beneath him sank
And left him helpless,
I wade on now, this winter day.
The cold Atlantic kicks my shins.