Its own form of grace

It was deep winter where I was some days ago,

I can still feel my hands shaking from the bitter frost

on that moonless beach,

cupping flushed red purple fingers around

little warmth of my breath.

It did nothing to ease the sting in a throbbing pain.

I keep at it like a prayer, trying,

jaw slack, breathing through my mouth

in a quiet rhythm within my spliced life,

shoulders hunched bracing myself against the angry wind.

And I stood

just over there at the end of the world

as phantom bells ring

to remind the sea that it was time,

my eyes closing lulled by the soft sounds of the waves.

If I stayed still enough

maybe I'd even disappear

into a deep slumber,

become an unholy jellyfish

making sand angels,

trying to get back home

to see some familiar sights,

be with other known jelly-fish.

Somehow

your steady little light,

my candle in the wind,

keeps me between waking and dying,

steady in a sea of suffering and chaos

like it was never more or less than it should be

but just is.

It's rare.

How do I reconcile that?