Wednesday, like all days, is a good day for poetry.
This poem was written while sitting at water's edge
Sorrow Song
It is enough that a sea of cloud
breathes ceruleun and ochre into earth's body
Enough
that the oak stands with naked arms raised,
a silent psalm in the howl of winter.
Enough
that the ocean genuflects to the beach,
salt cascading like a profusion of tears.
If you are sad, let it be.
Sing your sorrow to the dark water
spill your heart to the pebbles.
Your sorrow is a stone rinsed in swirling eddies,
the water will polish it until it gleams
and then lay it like a diamond at your feet.
This poem was written while sitting at water's edge
Beach at Sunset. Photo by Jon Sullivan. |
Sorrow Song
It is enough that a sea of cloud
breathes ceruleun and ochre into earth's body
Enough
that the oak stands with naked arms raised,
a silent psalm in the howl of winter.
Enough
that the ocean genuflects to the beach,
salt cascading like a profusion of tears.
If you are sad, let it be.
Sing your sorrow to the dark water
spill your heart to the pebbles.
Your sorrow is a stone rinsed in swirling eddies,
the water will polish it until it gleams
and then lay it like a diamond at your feet.
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