the rustling of the leaves in the trees the audible tremble of a collective chill sounds just like the beach
my front porch a shining metropolitan shore the sun seems to soften into welcoming; a different sun that doesnβt scowl hotly over apartment complexes and make liquid of asphalt and people
a benevolent warmth you can only get out of the city
the air rubs itself in coarse salt and Coppertone
this glass of water in my hand may well be the ocean the shift in my lap the waves a floating leaf a boat adrift on cerulean seas
the children laughing and playing here are the same children laughing and playing there, too
i am reminded that everything can be given a new life if you tell a wild heart of an ordinary thing