My wife is a great wave
on a great wave day.
I catch her, cresting, clear, seperate,
a long way out.
Her strength would
pull me under if I hadn’t
felt her coming,
wasn’t moving with her.
Her surge grasps me,
my board pushes into
that crashing creshendo.
She rushes me, laughing.
Down her line, wild, white, wet
and up, up, up
onto cool, soaked sand.
Laying still, quiet,
as foam, salt receeds.
I push up,
wade in.
She waits for me.
“Again.”
Poems by Ken 