Slate

Wind salted with rain,
days a humid banner
unrolling across the coast.
So many riddles, tilting
like clouds to mar the very
very blue. How do you gather
the years? Each one
is a bobby pin loosened
from your pinned-up hair.
You can close your eyes
and imagine a brush
dipped in water,
all those questions
with no answers dragged
along the darkening sand.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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