Is the ocean really blue?
Is the grass always green?
I walk along the pier wondering
About what the sea thinks of the sun.
Certainly she’d enjoy her privacy.
She laps against the crags, frothing, churning.
What is she thinking?
What does she wish she could know?
Farther away, she must be bottomless.
Whatever skeletons she wants to hide away
Behind that pressurized bulkhead,
she cannot always be happy.
She may still soften the sand,
Or whiten across the stones,
but when she hides behind doors of cloud
She is gray and lifeless.
She must be a chameleon
to be as blue as the sky,
as precious as sapphire.
A six-string plays in the distance.
The wood beneath my feet creaks gently.
Someone has been here before,
Staring at her.
She might have been happy that day.