Like the wandering tide,
feelings ebb and flow,
and foam-crash stirs the sauce.
So rare is our honesty,
it tastes raw with blood.
Flooded sound craters listen
and quiver like pudding,
as we pass over and stroke the moments
across the sky.
With mouthed-out words…
temperatures climb,
while expectation simply lounges
in the pattern department,
waiting for the fabric.
Time after time is never enough.
Laughing, we learn
how this expanse
plays hard to get and easy to find;
both cool and customary,
while contrast leads indecision
over the bank
and into the hollow reeds,
where waves sing and breeze sighs.
And we never have to
wonder why,
when the reason
is always
just us.
Jennifer Burnside
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