solitude on sunday morning

this morning, after a week of winds
strong enough to turn your head around,
there is no breeze at all at Ned's Point,
only clear blue sky,
some distant nimbus clouds,
and the water in the harbor
looks like Nana just finished ironing it;
hardly any people here either,
as if they were all led away in the night,
last night, the night that
I most recently waited patiently for You,
and You never arrived;
this stillness, broken only by a couple
of somber cackles of gulls,
gives me a concrete sense
of what my world would be like
if You were no longer in it,
and the feeling, that feeling,
starts to sicken me,
and so I decide that I must write it
all down in order to remember it, as I
have high hopes to never know it again.



December 13, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.