Retreating Storm.

Retreating Storm. 

A kaleidoscope of sea shells sleeps in her hands. 

Poking her skin with their clusters of edges, corners, and angles. 

They match her chipped nail polish, decorated with spirals, swirls, and dots. 

Much like the array of red, blue and green shells dozing in her cherry red hands, 

bitten raw by the cold morning's whistle.    

Seafoam curls like the lace in her hair. 

Each new wave in a different walk of life. 

Some waves make their way slowly but surely up the bay, 

like the elderly, sure of their path which they had travelled many times and require no urgency. 

While other waves rush in before quickly returning to the ocean, 

like the naïvety of a toddler venturing out before quickly returning for comfort. 

And every once in a while, a wave crashes into the shore,

with the ferocity of a young adult desperate to prove themselves in a changing environment. 

As she watches, the constant rush of the ocean melts into one everlasting movement.  

In the bleak morning, the sea lazily falls over the grains of sand. 

Crunching underneath her steps.

Breaking down even more, 

Left cold and disturbed by the storm retreating past the weak sun. 

as time marches onwards.