The torn page resembled the place

Where the ocean foam washed up,

And for a while, the tide would bring the wave

To that exact spot and to that very line

That stretched along the shore

As far as I could see.

But tides change, and slowly

It went out.

The horizon came to resemble

A page torn now in two different places,

Waiting to be torn in three, or four,

Or burned in a fire.

But luckily, the moon was pulling.

The swells renewed and came in high,

And foam that had been disregarded 

Along the beach line corresponded

With invigorated splashes

And kissed the sky,

And entered in to all the cycles of life again,

And smiled again.

And then could see,

The page only looked like it was torn,

As part of the graphic quality

Of the artwork.

-jenn