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by Michael Escoubas
With the shoreline spinning gold threads,
the horizon shrouded in blue fog,
my sails catch the wind,
begin to snap and whip, my skiff
is underway, her prow cuts
through the choppy blue bay.
At the tiller, my hair blows free,
a chill fills the morning air.
No other feeling equals
this shifting of seasons, the turn
of color, the embodiment
of soul and air in a kind
of communion where cynicism
is caught in wind-filled sails
released to the heavens, replaced by
an inexplicable inner glow.