An ocean framed in the window,
The sound of surf driven by squalls;
Seagulls hide under the eaves,
Driftwood propping the walls.
Hurricanes swirl and sweep in,
Flood and fury leaving no trace;
But the billet is like a bamboo shoot,
Old blown down, new taking its place.
Small and remote is the beach abode;
Its makeup ever reframed.
Reminders blow toward the shore,
Waxing and waning untamed.
The beachcomber is determined,
His desire deferred but steadfast.
But still tethered to revolving fate,
He dreams his wait will not last.
© 2021, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
