Gift

Make a claim that words will fail
But know it is our certain due
To circle out what must turn in
Until that weighted word is found


That holds the moon’s countless tides 
That drags and pulls the restless sea
Towards its destined briefest kiss
and quick release.  Escaping land


While hoarding sand that would be gift.

(Visited 8 times, 1 visits today)

Leave A Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *