to believe that poetry is something human
is to forget about the sea.
as we sit, hunched at our desks, expressing our love or frustration,
the waves are writing sonnets.
their watery touch makes
lyrics or limericks or odes or haikus
of wet sand.
the ocean, it writes in invisible ink.
as we lay in bed, pen poised on the page,
the ocean is crafting a memoir.
a tale of a journey
of tumultuous seas
of calm glassy waters
a ship caught in the breeze.
time is its pen,
recounting a story on weathered, worn limestone
in Mother Earth’s native tongue.
so, as you draft stories of the sea ever-blue,
don’t you forget —
the ocean’s a poet, too.