The fear of waves,
expanding in their darkness, their inevitability,
growing smooth and
promising an eventual crash
The smell of honeysuckle is intoxicating,
electric yellow-lime against the dark summer storm.
Clouds sweep, seething,
breath heavy with the fragrance of rain
The scariest part of a wave is the swell,
calm and beautiful marbled with foam on navy,
because it’s the anticipation that kills.
There’s no time to fear during the crash
The leaf mulch melts to dust in the onslaught,
dark droplets against dulled amber,
icy on the warm hues and warm earth
trying to retain summer heat.
The swell lifts me, gravity defying.
My breath, laden with salted sun, catches
as though I might not be let down but rather
float into the dizzying blue before the crash
The winter sun is different, it’s white rather than gold.
It’s rare and it stings like office fluorescents,
illuminating flushed cheeks and sparkles
on cracked ice beneath boots
The wave curls ten stories high, rising forward,
arched like spun glass,
every color of blue you could imagine.
A sudden explosion overhead, the crash
The windows glow sapphire in the pollen-scented shadows
as the ocean of clouds rolls to the horizon,
burning up in the line of orange sunset.
The silhouettes of newborn buds break the light
The honeysuckle promises to bloom again
The wave promises a crash.