On Candlemas

I meet the winter’s midpoint at the beach

looking to be healed—the dog’s wounded paw,

and my heart leaning cruel—by the ocean’s

salty lick, the simple prayers of shells and rocks.

I don’t know what to make of the dead gull

laid out, breast up, on a piece of driftwood,

both the hammered gray of overcast skies,

except consider it an offering–

something done with gentle hands but odd, far

from the inky story line the tide inscribes.

Beneath my feet the small shells crack and split.

I expect to leave unblessed, head tucked against

the wind and the dark days still ahead–

empty. I whistle the dog to my side.