the wind wound round my legs,
changed direction, wiping my face
with a salty slap as it whistled away.
I veered with it, swinging south
along the strand, grinding my heels
into the beach to stand my ground
against the tempest’s growing bloom.
And though I’ve felt the lash
of fortune’s back of hand before,
never before did I assume the depths
of despair I felt that day. No,
not even close. I looked ahead
as best I could through the spray
that pebble-dashed my view.
The future spread before me,
flat as prairie, expressionless, gray
and drab, devoid of interest, latent or
exposed. I sighed the sigh of the
homeless man; then,
like a seasoning sapling,
I bent with the rain and trudged
on to Desolation Sound.
you’re a good poet