Icy, biting breezes cut like knives; Sea-spray wave crests crash upon the shore; Silent, unseen clam and crab life writhes, Buried neath the surf’s incessant roar. Winter beach grass, windblown, stiff and dead, Flagellates the backs of dune and rill; Scratch of sackcloth, ashes on each head; Penance for the dying season’s chill. Portent of the looming doom of Lent, Season of confession and contrition. Stiff and dead in sin, yet we repent, Trusting in God’s promised manumission. Winter’s sacrifice leads to rebirth. Raised like new-born beach grass from the earth. James A. Tweedie is a recently retired pastor living in Long Beach, Washington. He likes to walk on the beach with his wife. He has written and self-published four novels and a collection of short stories. He has several hundred unpublished poems tucked away in drawers.