Waves grasping
at the shoreline, letting go
of the rocks
that weigh them down,
retreating,
only to try yet again.
Driftwood tangled
in the rocks, whitened
by sun and whether or not
I pick them up or
let them drift elsewhere,
the waves will gift them again.
There's a sunset every night--
not always in an explosion of cinnamon,
but sometimes wrapped in fog or
a deeper blue cloud. Still, it sets
and another day passes
and becomes yesterday.
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