There is a beach in the north of Spain
that I want to take you to one day:
A stone-cradle oasis
like cupped hands
with singular intentions
“come as you are.”
Here the water is a palette gone perfectly wrong,
A rushed stroke with a heavy hand
allowed evergreen leaves through the gates of heaven—
the happiest of mistakes are still blue.
There are no lines, only gentle curves in this place—
there is no need for boundaries where the only obligation is to be.
A place where life thrives so passionately it is silent,
except for the waves who whisper amongst themselves
which nautical things have come to pass beyond the rock.
And of course there’s the rock:
frosted with green fuzz and
the only defense in this place from the infinity of the horizon.
