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    The Sea

      Michael Graves    1        0        Report content

    She is the sea.

    Lounging languidly;
    recumbent and shiny
    beneath the hot, azure sky.

    Not a care.

    Across a tan stretch of sand
    soft and wet
    she pulls me deep into her
    sensuous, undulating waves.

    She is the sea.

    Her tides: high, low, rip, ebb, stand, red, flood, neap...
    I will never
    know all of her moods.
    Nor understand.
    But there is no need.

    She is the sea.

    She rages before
    the winds of
    change.

    Holding to her own rules, bending
    to the will of none.

    Her tide ebbs, and
    she is sharp rocks
    barnacles and
    slimy green things.

    She is the sea.

    I sail her
    with my smooth, wooden boat.
    Its hull dipping
    between her
    heaving
    swells.

    Her rocking, wet
    slap
    slap
    slap
    against my
    wooden hull
    leaves my bare
    wind-burned skin
    soaked
    and wanting more.

    She claims neither
    responsibility nor care
    for my attention.

    She is the sea.

    Capricious and
    frisky in
    white-caps, she sparkles
    shimmering, wet moongleam
    in the night.
    Awaiting my return.
    Feigning disinterest, yet
    waiting
    to be
    engaged.

    And She is the sea.

     

    --Graves 3/24/18

     


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