Harbor

Down by the harbor

where the water keeps arriving

and leaving again,

the steps are dark with weed,

small shells scattered

as if the tide had been thinking

and changed its mind.

Someone once told me

the sea gives these things.

I am not sure.

It seems to take

and take again,

then return what it cannot use.

I stood there one evening

with nothing planned—

only the sound of the boats

touching their ropes,

a slow knocking

that felt almost like speech.

A man passed me,

placed a piece of bread in my hand,

said something I didn’t understand.

Then he was gone.

The harbor did not change.

The gulls lifted

and settled again.

The water moved

as it had been moving all day.

Still, I held the bread a moment

before eating it.

It was warm

from his hand.

That seemed enough.

Evening came gently.

The boats darkened.

The tide began its quiet turning.

I did not ask

what any of it meant.

The water kept moving.

The light faded.

And I stood there

a little while longer,

listening

as if something

might be said,

though nothing was.