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Thursday, January 25, 2024

Allegory, Sonnet #621

Notice with what swift skill 
the wave dives on its side 
to escape the rolling mill 
of the incoming tide. 
Sloped beaches elide 
the surf’s distended plight 
to the sandpiper’s delight. 
When the oceans deepen 
and our shores sink from sight, 
when powerful tides bend 
toward dry land and kill 
what no man could defend, 
we’ll call that an evil 
and pray, “Moon, make an end.”