Worn smooth by salt and sand
This feather wood, in the shape of an open hand
Cradles what is laid across it –
Another sculpting from the sea,
Drifted stick refugee,
Sloughed without pain from a
Distant tree –
It seeks the lifeline of the first,
Nestles in a gently curving space on the
Knotted, weightless woody palm,
Its own little valley where it rests
In divine balance.

And I, plopped seal-like on my low rock
Letting eternity slip through my
Fruitless fingers
Am the final force in the completion of their
Destined union:
I am the Matchmaker of Moonstone Beach.