Falling Tides

Number 29, finished (along with 30, to be posted momentarily) with a few moments of the last day to spare. Both appear in the draft below:

ocean and vilanelle

This was technically the last poem of the month, but I think the villanelle (to follow in my next post) is themed more appropriately to wrap up the project:

.

When we sense the swell,
we expect the wave to rise,
and watch the angry foam, sure enough,
crest on a gaping maw,
and though we anticipate the crash,
we still cringe when it falls,
and while we feel battered
and soaked to the bone,
we seem to miss
the ocean’s scale
and the sparkle in the water.

.

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