Rolling
The chunky shore seems in slow motion
against the backdrop of a hasty tide;
The most dramatic in all the world.
I’m watching them roll their pants up
not quite high enough.
They take their shoes and socks off, and cross
in search of the other side, dry
and soon to be just as drowned and missing as the ocean floor.
Here,
above all this,
perched barefoot upon a mossy boulder
fallen here from somewhere father away,
I sit.
I hear the water rushing in,
filling up the beach
and licking its face clean,
before swallowing it whole.
Our few moments of admiration become but a gurgle
and a foamy swoosh of liquid eraser; a liquid creator
that swallows me whole.
The melody of nature’s hypocrisies are enchanting,
making them acceptable.
If only I,
as destructive and reproductive as the sea,
were as charming.
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