On Sunday’s Canvas
our footprints sketch a path
across the sand.
Out of focus, others dot the beach.
Hands drawn tightly together,
our talk ebbs and flows.
This is Sunday’s Cove,
the rim where rivers end and tell their stories.
Afternoon sea and sky run together until
we are surrounded by what we feel.
Sand shines in a festive way.
Here at the edge of the world,
night is celebrated with wine in a water glass.
Beyond the surf, we do not hear the silence.
We wake every morning to brush new paths.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 9:17 PM UTC
On Sunday’s Canvas
our footprints sketch a path
across the sand.
Out of focus, others dot the beach.
Hands drawn tightly together,
our talk ebbs and flows.
This is Sunday’s Cove,
the rim where rivers end and tell their stories.
Afternoon sea and sky run together until
we are surrounded by what we feel.
Sand shines in a festive way.
Here at the edge of the world,
night is celebrated with wine in a water glass.
Beyond the surf, we do not hear the silence.
We wake every morning to brush new paths.
