The Paper Sea Evening shade and paper waves Are thrown against the bay, Tearing loud across the sand And throwing salty spray. Azure ink runs through the deep And silver sliver fish-- They dart between the maché coral And olive seaweed strips. Laughing gulls with postcard wings Dip down into the the ink, Then climb the air with webbed feet full Of minnows blushing pink. The granules of the seashore sand Compose a pale collage, It crumbles and it forms anew At the paper sea’s massage. Tissue-paper clouds extend Across the blue expanse, Burning into fiery hues At the lightbulb-sun’s glance. And when the lightbulb sputters out And nighttime shines its rays, The paper sea--turned black and white-- Still tears across the bay.
H. K. Snyder is an author and poet residing in the piney woods of East Texas. She works as a barista, and on her down time finds joy in games of fetch with her dog, hiking, and the quiet contemplation of an open fire.
Grand Little Things 