How open the ocean is, despite her depth.
Wide and gaping, and rolling as the celestials round her,
A curragh dips its toe in, and is swept out.
I meet daily with the ocean, taste her bitter salt,
Lonely in the mornings, her cold bite
If we traveled human bodies as we travel the land,
They would be as the ocean;
Soft, and sturdy, delicate
Yet strong, more beneath us than the night and day.
This morning the water is chipped steel.
She looks savage and hungry, as though she felt feral.
Carefully I step the stones, greet her as I would an angry dog.
Foam is a farciae about her churning energy,
Tightly containing a breath she holds in her lungs that may blow me away.
My qualms are swallowed, holy water
Slicing my feet.
I give, and than retreat,
The ocean loud and roaring;
I see wood planks shattering along the shouting shore.