two full glasses of sea

It had been quite a trip, technically speaking.
It was a phenomenal journey, emotionally speaking.
An exhausting effort, mentally speaking.
And rather taxing, physically speaking.

But we arrived, at night, to an empty house
with a note that said "fire, beach, come."
We found two wine glasses and managed
to fit a whole bottle in them.

We sloshed it down to shore, by foot,
by rope,
by stairs
and steps, and then
Oh my god--

It was endless, and open,
and pulsating and dark:
the ocean, the sea at night.

It didn't beckon; it commanded
awe, respect, humility.
It pulled and pushed and flirted with the moon,
and invited us in.

But we had a goal: fire, beach, come.
And in the distance, a signal, a leaping, red port of call.
So we walked, not straight, but in zigs and zags,
drawn to the water, drawn to the fire, back and forth,
laughing and sipping away.

That must be what religious revelation feels like:
You have commanded, I am yours, what relief.