Corduroy sand. Water rubbed to a rough sheen.
Islands like knives against the sky.
On some especially dark nights they creep closer, unable to
dull their longing for the continent that birthed them eons ago.
And the waves, having eavesdropped on what the yoga teacher said, pause in that moment between in-breath and out-breath, between out-breath and in-breath,
relishing the stillness.
Knowing that is when the mind is clearest.
3 comments:
What a gorgeous beach poem. I always think of the waves as breath.
Send this to Tricyle Magazine. Pronto.
You are writing poetry! Love this. x0 N2
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