The Sea

Ghosting along on a silver platter,
under a dome of haze.
Listening to the babble of the bow
and watching ripples roll and fade.
Like a hand on a clock,
pointing to the past.
Like an arrow in slow motion...
flying ever forward. 
Never knowing from where...
or till when.
Never to see how far we might be.
Not warm or cold.
Nor soft or bold.
Alone in the gentle air.
No blue.
No red.
But shades of gray and pale, pale green-
Slowly fading into the sea...
the sameness of the sea.

Francis J Grasso  ©08.22.2016