The tree tops around our home are roaring and swaying
a group of stumbling home drunkards
through the pouring rain.
I crave the the greater bellow and crash
of the sea’s edges,
sharp spray on my skin,
salt taste on my lips.
T’would be a good to be wet sticky,
and cold pricky,
to be afraid of the sea suck
that could dash me back on jags.
The vitality that merges the surge with gales
would quicken my spirit.
I could drink endlessly of it
and the source would not run dry.