Yard Sale of Thoughts

The ocean sweats and casts its net:
a web entangled then freed again 
by afternoon winds. 

And what I thought made sense, 
now a puzzle strewn midst
mismatched sand and surf.

The open sores,
the hours inside by lamplight
 knitting scenes of the outdoors.

When the tide line slits its throat,
the bruised and blistered boats
lie upside down upon the shore.

But here at year's end, 
why take stock? 
What we once had, soon forgot.

©K.F.Hartless2025

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