a sonnet by Suzanne Musin
The blue and blue, the violet-black, the sea
flies underneath a veil of foamy white
and ripples under, over, into me.
I breathe it in and wallow in the sight.
I cannot write a proper shade of blue
or stretched horizons hiding every land
The pattern on the water, always new,
familiar as the lines upon my hand.
And here a crash of salty mist—a spray
And no words can contain the rocky waves
that rise and settle in that endless way
as I imagine unknown watery graves.
I cannot tell you if the roar can claim
its source from me or sea. It sounds the same.
