He is the tumultuous ocean,
The twisting, rolling sea
That feigns a certain gentleness
Until its rage breaks free

So vast and so unending
And limitless in worth
I took him once for granted
As I wandered through the surf.

Without the tumulus ocean
Without its rolling seas
Without the tide that tosses me
And never sets me free

The arid, fallow earth would crack
Beneath my burning feet
Reminding me of which I lost
And dried up with the heat

But salt leaves me to languish
No sweetness he can quench
Time will only tell from here
If love can fill this trench.

-◇-

I write,  

but I am not a poet

I feel emotions so intense
I spill them in ink across a page

but I am not a poet

I am forced to release thoughts
from my mind

but I am not a poet

my words are presented as I feel them
they do not make a poem

as I am not a poet

my senses view, smell, taste, hear and feel things
so differently from many

but I am not a poet

Phrases and images appear in my mind
I have to share these wondrous things

but I am not a poet

I am not sure what makes a poet.

This I will sit and quietly ponder,
reflect upon,
write about
because maybe,  just maybe

I am a poet

-◇-