Jan. 14, 2004
The clouds stretch wide across the blue sea-sky,
not thick, but thinly spread out over miles,
and small and round, but pulled—so distant-high
in scattered groups of hundreds, almost files,
yet random just enough so that they seem
a white and bubbly sea-foam without roar.
They catch the edge of sunlight dull and gleam
as just below the surface, off the shore.
How I would like to be there jumping waves,
Letting the slow sun press me to fatigue.
But it is January. She who craves
the beach is only fooled by sky’s intrigue.
The winter wind is not always so kind
to bring a summer-picture to the mind.