Shadow whispers
boiled up in the place.
Overtures of innocent violence
stirred idle fingers.
Unbroken sunshine dominated
the blue of deep skies.
A sediment of faces
is a beach of tides.
An undertow washes away colors of us,
revealing old stains.
The street, a hungry animal,
searches to devourer, never full.
I stand at the end of rules, the start and
the finish, just steps between.
Without the seasons I would find no reason
to sit by the ocean and think.
Roger Singer 