A Lean Net

The tide once swelled our woven strands,

a net pulled taut with silver gleam,

each thread entwined in knowing hands,

each knot a vow, each cast a dream.

But winds are fickle, waters shift,

the currents stretched our lines apart.

Not torn, nor lost, nor left adrift,

just loosened by the sea’s own art.

A lean net now, yet still it lingers,

soft as dusk on salted air,

its empty spaces hold no sorrow,

only light that wasn’t there.

The weight we bore was never burden,

nor was release a bitter tide.

The ocean sings in quiet motion,

not all that leaves was meant to hide.

No tangled ruin, no frayed surrender,

just strands that learned to bow, not break.

The sea returns what it remembers,

and love is all it ever takes.

So go, O net, where morning calls you,

catch new winds in open hands.

The tide that swept us into splendor

still hums where silver memory stands.

And if some eve the waters shimmer,

soft with echoes, wild yet free,

know I will smile upon the shoreline,

blessing all you’ve come to bewoven tight with silver glimmer.

© Bunguswa ™