Sunday, November 18, 2012


Squall - Andrew Wyeth - 1986

Gray rolling over swelling blue.
White foam cresting, dropping;
slapping the blue over and over.

The sky darkening quickly
a smokey gray, a dirty dray,
bullet gray and now charcoal.

Winds swirl my hair every which way.
My scalp actually pains under pressure.
Waves whack shoreline rocks repeatedly.

Each tide washes higher- a mist rises over me.
My face wet, my lips taste of salt. 
I lean now with the wind.

The water, darker now
seemingly has swallowed the sky;
the two joined in force- rolling in.

Michael A. Wells

The Mag

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