Most of the time I manage to ignore <br />my little doubts inside, and listen to <br />the roll/crash/hiss of waves that split the shore, <br />before they blend as if a salty stew <br />that I ingest, inhaling with my mind, <br />my heart too full to take its wisdom in; <br />and I remember hearing, “Love is blind, ” <br />and then I think, “My God, I’m blind again.” <br /> <br />But sight is overrated when our pace <br />is like the long, slow oceanic songs, <br />reaching their last crescendos in a place <br />that a completed wave would want to go— <br />a place of purpose, where the end belongs— <br />without directions. Yes, the waves just know.<br /><br />David Nelson Bradsher<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/directions-3/
