Let the Ocean Worry about Being Blue

He’s a summer memory soaked
in monsoons—Salt-tipped tongue,
quick clouds coming to cover
sun-baked hope sitting in conchs

still warm with scent of musk
and cane to hold onto, beyond
the present. But with the way things
are going there won’t be time,

get around to putting our hands
on tactile begging for exploration—
At least not until a later season,
where there’s harmony in the Four

Winds, moon waning a little slower
than she used to… Can you imagine
all the golden waves out of lapping
motion, rustling against each other,

no care for rhythms, only how big
crashes can be, how massive they
can make themselves, regardless
of harm? Ocean comes and goes,

entices us with secrets, we cover our
faces, don’t take the bait. Tired
of reality, heart is willing to jump
blindfolded, take a different plunge…


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