Ode to Repetition

I like to take the same walk

down the wide expanse of Woodrow to the ocean
and most days I turn left toward the lighthouse.
The sea is always different. Some days dreamy,
waves hardly waves, just a broad undulation
in no hurry to arrive. Other days the surf’s drunk,
crashing into the cliffs like a car wreck.
Want to read more?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.