Losing is easy

I look at the waves, the same waves

again and again, swinging against the rocks, 

a pendulum  of the sea, that forever carries 

the same messages of the salty winds that losing

is easy and all things are filled with the intend to be lost.

Shells at my feet, solidified chalk, sedimentary

in their density. I clasp them and move them 

between fingers, feeling

their underwater traces of contusion,

lost pearls in some heart, long venerated.

From image to illusion, I think of the sea

as a mother, giving birth and letting go,

wildly generous to all her creatures,

insinuating not to take things too personally

and laughing away fears in frothy waves.