Eye of the needle

Low tide,
and the lumbering threat
of the pounding waves
has receded
to manageability.
It's safe,
for now at least,
to walk out to the rock
and so we stand,
peering through
a hole carved in the stone
by those same waves
and marvel at the view
of surges yet to come.

A straw thrust through a tree by a tornado,
cars tossed by hurricane winds,
this hole --
each a testament
to force and power
far beyond control;
such force could easily propel
dozens of rich men and camels
through the eye of any needle.

Tide shifts,
and the waves begin to tumble toward us like the years;
time finds us scrambling
for higher moral ground
as the impending crash
grows louder, closer.

We see death drawing near
and, hoping to delay,
promise reform
and race the speeding clock
for ever worthier lives
discarding sins like seaweed
on the shore between then and now;
tossing our transgressions behind us
like clothes, abandoned on the stairs, a tell-tale trail
in the desperate climb to Passion.