By: Abigail Weintraub
It doesn’t conjure frothing foam,
and sends it overseas
In cascading walls of turquoise blue,
and ink-pen bleeds of green.
Nor does it beckon onlookers,
who seek to meet the sky
After spasms of pounding waves,
amongst a battle cry.
It doesn’t smell of summer breeze,
and driftwood splashed ashore
It lacks percussive symphonies,
as ice-white torrents roar.
I won’t see, when I gaze ahead,
a million sapphire blues
Instead within ripples of tranquil river,
In my reflection is you.