this time
of year.
the sand is rough
and dark,
a wash of pebbles
line the surf,
broken shells,
a coat of armor
wet
in the sun.
the wind cuts.
the salt is in your eyes.
but you keep walking,
your feet sinking
with each new
step.
the pier is miles
away.
the past is never far
behind.
No comments:
Post a Comment