A Life Less Blog


Riptide
July 17, 2010, 12:33 pm
Filed under: Poetry | Tags:

I sit and float on a silent cloud, keeping my eyes closed but my mind open.

The slow pace of the waves becomes more insistent as the tide flows in.

The edge of the cliff is looming and I can see the white spray of the surf on the rocks from my vantage point.

My cloud is soft and comfortable, it cradles my head and wraps around my body protectively.

It is too easy to just dive off and let the soft sea spray tickle my nose as I crash into the waves.

I wish to glide by the ocean on my cloud for a little bit longer.

I throw my legs over the side as the cloud hovers just above the water and place a tentative toe; barely making a ripple.

The cold mixes with the warm air and I involuntarily shiver as the tremor travels up my leg, to my thigh, and settles somewhere in the middle of my stomach.

My stomach clenches against the chills that continue to run up my spine and whisper a promise to my neck.

I tell myself to relax, to release the tension, to give in to the full-body tremor and leave the safety of my cloud for the now beckoning water.

The cloud senses my rejection and gently starts to disintegrate pushing me ever so slowly toward the waiting depths.

Now I have two toes in the water, three, four, my ankle, my knee, my thigh, my torso.

I sink into the water and let it engulf me; a new kind of protection that seeps into my pores.

The cloud is gone, but I haven’t noticed.

I am too busy concentrating on the pulse of the ocean as it caresses me secretly, softly, dangerously.

I lie in its arms and take a final breath not making a ripple as it pulls me further and further under.