Wading

And here I am, jeans rolled up to the knees, barefoot, wading the shallows with arguments tugging at my feet, pulling me out as if answers were waiting beyond where the water lifts into breaking waves, the calm on the end of a rip. The incessant call washes unrest across my feet and seeps into where it tunes itself to the notes of a longing. Plucked by waves, the plaintive sound amplifies inside every cell. There are times when the sadness becomes almost too much. Then the sun bursts gold and fans out its rays into the evening sky and everything I see, hear and sense become voices and shiny instruments and I realize my lowly feet are ankle deep in the playing of an eternal song even though, for me, it's but an evening long.