They Question

Winter waves still roll…

no longer shy, sundrunk,

now silver untamed fury.

This time, they crash.

The people are gone, but I’m here;

toes dipped, hypothermic risk,

gaze fixed, horizon mixed.

Up to ankles now.

The seagulls circle

with a tilt of head,

they question.

I don’t answer.

Thighs now.

Jellyfish surround.

Soon the sandy floor

gives way.

Shoulders.

Neck.

Eyes.

 

~ E

12.2.16

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