I struggle against the wind on the
desolate beach, wet sand caressing
my feet, as slivers of broken silica,
progeny of crystalline boulders
a million years old, compete with
water and seashells for their
place on the planet, offering
my bare toes a place to endure
the waves’ battle with the shore.
Away from the water, bone dry sand
from shifting dunes takes angry flight,
driven by a monstrous gale, bathing
the sky in suffocating beige sheets that
flood my raw cheeks with waves of stinging
rebukes for my choice to walk alone,
to face a hurricane of my own making,
an emotional storm spawned by my reaction
to words that wounded my misplaced pride.
As I make my way in self-imposed solitude,
the water in the turbulent grey clouds above,
too heavy with sorrow for the air to hold,
flushes sand from the roiling sky in sheets of
rain that wash the anger from my face,
replacing it with torrential waves of regret
well-suited to the squalls that spawned
this solitary struggle against the wind.
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