I don’t know what’s gotten into me; I’m normally not this poetically inspired, but here’s another poem for you all. (And by the way, all writing on this blog, unless otherwise noted/cited, is mine. My English teachers gave me a healthy fear of plagiarism, so I avoid it at all costs.)
With salty trace, she slips and slides–
The sea, in endless, restless tides;
And soft she reaches o’er sandy shores,
Then loud, she crashes up and roars.
Robed in pitch-black garb of woe,
She searches heaven, to and fro.
Ever mournful is her tune
The dark, dark night without her moon.
Beauty of white, small wildflower–
Up she reaches every hour,
Straining towards her source of life,
The sun which bathes her all in light.
Yet should he from her hide his face,
And cease to her with sunshine grace,
Then weak she grows, and drops her head,
And hopeless, her bright life is dead.
So too, my Love, am I the sea,
And You the moon that sings to me;
And I the tiny small weak flower,
And You the sun in awesome power.
Hide not Your face, O precious Lord,
Nor ever keep from me Your Word,
For then shall I like sea lament,
Like flower, find my life is spent.