The blue/gray sea
stretches in endless expanse.
The tide is heavy with flow
and fury. Roiled and misty,
it is a restless thing.
with their billowing banners
have gone home. No need to tout Coppertone
when there is no sun and no tourists
to see them. It is November, even the seashells
have buried their heads in the sand.
On the boardwalk, the carousel is still;
the horses are draped in their winter blankets.
They will emerge in May with the music,
tails and manes fluffed with a new brush,
At the beach, this is the Spirit Season.
Wind and soul and stretches of sand
become one. Even the gulls
sense the change. Their rudeness is gone.
True to their tuxedos,
they are a picture of harmony.
This deserted shore is the perfect place
for peace treaties. One must remember
to bring pencil and paper. The tide is rising;
white capped waves are rolling in. Anything
written in sand will soon be gone.