She is whipping winds.
Salt,
washing over my hair, eyes, skin.
Numbingly cold waters,
as if just unfrozen,
spilling into, refreshing
the Bay.
She hosts,
An eroded map
Of webbed and pebbled paths.
Barnacle scattered
grit.
Rolling fields of green low tides.
A fisherman’s daydream.
A meeting
Of core and sun.
She is
an awakening,
a renewal,
a provocation of adventure....
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