Roses Are Red...

I'm not a poet. Never have been. I've always wished I could write poetry (and understand it) but it's not what I do. My writing style is much more straightforward... conversational (as you all know).

But I've been spending time with a poet -- a poet whose words and style are... affecting. I've been affected. And inspired. Doesn't make it good, mind you... just motivated :)

Ocean

Your words embrace my spirit as the sea embraces the shore
And, like silver-sheened boughs of driftwood washed aground to bleach in the sun
Answers are left  behind, on the littoral of my Self
Questions, too – shards of blue-green sea glass, polished smooth by salt and sand
And shell fragments, jagged and rough, cruel to the touch

Your word waves wash over me, cool and gentle
Soothing relief from the harsh glare of criticism and judgment
And they crash, roiling and unsettled, pulled from the deep parts of you
Eroding beliefs etched with sandy fingers near the water’s edge
Far enough, I thought, from the rising tide

You are the rising tide
And I, having played too long in castles built on crumbling foundations
Am caught unawares
I must decide
To clamber inelegantly to higher, solid ground, safe and dry

Or to surrender to the current
And swim