Rebecca Dow

I see the peach colored in-between of horizon, and storm.

How do the birds receive that uniqueness on their wings?

As the tide rolls out and my stocking feet clench over rugged ocean rock,

And the wind takes my warmth in a natural exchange,

It’s as though I’ve been here before.

I miss the clouds back home, sporadic at times but awe-evoking;

Kin of mine.

One may venture to believe that this place is meant

For solely kings and queens to please.

That only He, Himself, would be allowed to knock

Decadently upon Her delicate door

and be greeted by a nip of ecstasy – warm.

Lucky for me, the skies are not so exclusive.

She sprawls and ages,

drawls and changes

For every soul to witness, free.

And so, I watch her move,

Sitting on a rock by the sea.