Poetry

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At the shore of memory,
a blade of wind cuts through the dark;
God’s voice—clear as stone—
commands the sea to stack
its waters in twin walls.
Silence follows sluices of power:
we walk a pavement of sand and mud,
alone,
between two ledges of impossibility.

Centuries later,
another dawn on Galilee:
the same restless sea,
now silver with dawn,
and a carpenter stands at the lip of waves.
He does not bend the water’s will—
he treads upon its crest,
light-footed with a promise in his eyes:
“Come.”

Here, divine power does not carve
a path but offers a hand.
The water holds him, not by force,
but by invitation.
Peter, trembling, steps forward—
fear and wonder woven into each footfall—
until doubt dissolves beneath his gaze.

In one, separation begets safe passage:
walls of water guard a solitary escape.
In the other, participation becomes grace:
the sea itself responds to faith,
bearing two figures on its surface,
human and divine in step together.

Both witnesses to the same turbulent deep,
one left stranded on dry land;
the other drawn into its flow.
We learn that power can push back chaos with authority,
or dance with it in a fragile trust.
Miracle may stand apart—or meet us in motion.






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