a cold beach
is still a beach.
the gulls still fly overhead
while the waves lap
against driftwood older
than i am.
scorching sand
isn't a prerequisite for joy
because joy isn't a place
but rather the attitude
we bring.
flashes back to childhood,
of sand-caked fingernails
and salt-shaken curls.
the beach,
aged adirondack chairs,
pebbled paths
whisk me towards waves.
the beach is just a place.
it's your attitude about it
that makes it special.
YOU ARE READING
asterism
Poetrya prominent pattern of words too small to forge through the deep yet large enough to accompany space.
