Too Damp To Be Wet
A briefly wrung-out sky
is blotched with clammy clouds.
A humid air clings to my chest.
Damp squirrels hang limply
from dripping branches.
Desultory birdsong mops
but not much.
I yearn for the cold slap of sea-spray,
chill cheeks and fresh lips
not this damp-dive-walking
through a moist miasma.
Maybe the day will shake itself free
of its mope?
Perhaps this drizzle will tip over
into a cresting surf of sunlight,
or anything that smacks of a
rolling ocean
that can dry-out, rinse and clean.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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