Scottsdale

A curious thing; to yield
one’s purse, and then one’s nerve
endings, both now still chilled
next day; adrift, unsafe,

tentative. Curious, no?
that I can still get tipsy
on brine and Veuve Clicquot,
though little passed my lips.

A sea, of salt and swells,
of stark and fearsome shores,
whose waves have deigned to stall,
whose deeps I will not hear.

A sea, its code unknown,
as mine to hers. I traced
its surface, and left home.
Godspeed its winsome face,

through change of seasons: fall,
winter, spring, summer, Autumn.
The sea restores it whole.
Its beauty arches, awesome.