Our children speak to us in ocean talk,
thunderous, with fury,
like great crashing waves in a storm.
Deafening in their desire to find
their steady, rhythmic shoreline voices.

Defiantly, they rage against the unseen forces,
pulling them out to the depths.
Languishing in the deep darkness, tensions mount.
When will the tides gather them in once again?
The moon must be full tonight.

Our embracing coast beckons to them.
In turmoil, they only see greyish tones, broken
by fleeting glimpses of sunlight.
Stung by shifting sand, we remain vigilant near the water's edge, until we can no longer stand up to the uncertainty.

Slumping down, we begin to sink, and then to crawl,
clawing our way back with others on the same coast.
Weary now, we resign ourselves to tending to the lighthouse.
Watching and charting the moon phases,
we send out loving signals of hope.

Unable to control the moon over the waters,
we surf the webwaves,
cling fiercely to our old memories,
pray with passion, and
stoke the fires of our strength.

Our children sometimes do come to us,
dancing in haunting mists.
Salty tears wake up our tired faces.
We float in the still of the moment,
wary of the changing winds and
the color of the moody sky.

And the cycles continue endlessly,
with the final rescue just out of reach.
Why can't they linger in the shallows this time? Having only to cope with a few sharp shells or rough rocks?
Lasting answers seem never to come.

Our children speak to us in ocean talk.
We will never, ever stop listening.