Question in the Sand

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A man kneels at the edge of the tide
and writes
WHY
with one finger.
The letters are large enough
to be read from a distance,
which seems ambitious.
A message for pirates?
For God?
The sea,
having answered
several million questions already,
continues
with its own business.
A wave approaches.
Changes its mind.
Returns to conference
with the horizon.
The man stands.
His knees complain
and then recover.
He studies the word.
The word studies him.
Neither appears satisfied.
Years have altered him
in practical ways.
His hair,
for example,
once committed fully
to black.
Now it negotiates.
The wind participates.
A gull lands nearby.
It contributes nothing.
Maybe because it can't read.
Another wave enters the discussion.
The W loses a corner.
The H remains confident.
The Y,
for reasons unknown,
looks wounded.
A woman appears.
She carries her shoes
with one hand.
The other swings
at her side.
"How did you find me?"
he asks.
The question seems misplaced.
She looks at the sand.
At the sea.
At the gull.
At the word.
"I wasn't looking."
This answer lasts
slightly longer
than the W.
The tide advances.
The gull departs.
The horizon keeps
its own counsel.
Together they walk north
while the sea
works patiently
through the alphabet.
—Iris Lennox