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Transformation I dreamed pale buds of beach heather, the scent of brine, borne on breezes. I strolled pale sands, hot beneath callused heels, filled my pockets with pink and yellow toenail shells, and sometimes with prized bits of sea glass, polished, tumbled, opaque. I followed always that same safe, twisting trail of kelp and broken shell where land transforms, and oceans begin. No more! Bring me your spiteful seas, your ravening waves, your pelting rains. I am grayed, tumbled, toughened. Like driftwood, I will weather. |
Additional Notes:
This is a gentle rewrite of the last few lines, based on a critique. Thank You!
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