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Perfect Peace
Miles of my sandy beach
stretch before her,
As she gazes at the
green-like-a-thousand-limes water,
on her early morning
beachcomber's walk.
Whispy sea oats and
rolling dunes of sugar-white sand,
meet my gently sloping
shore.
Driftwood, broken bits
of white shells,
a blue plastic shovel,
scattered about, are caught by my waves,
tossed to and fro and
redeposited on the shore.
Her eyes focus on the
early morning sky, orange-pink, with feathery clouds.
On the horizon, she
spots a ship, tiny-toy size,
and wonders about the
vastness of the universe.
A swooping pelican,
diving into the sea for its morning meal,
a flopping fish,
delights her.
She's mesmerized by my
beckoning, splashing, crashing, roaring waves.
What peace she finds. .
. .
In utter amazement,
almost dumb struck by the beauty of the moment,
She whispers, "How could
there not be a God?"
August 2002
Nancy Martin
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