The Waves
S
Smoky Hoss
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The deep gray waves
of late November crash, spray and recoil upon the eastern shore
of Lake Michigan.
The sky overhead in slate and sly shades
scatters melancholy like ashes
in a roiling, relentless wind.
And there,
far, far to the southwest,
a lone, thin horizontal line
of blazing orange-yellow
like that of a match first struck,
rips open the darkness in the clouds;
and briefly, and brilliantly the light floods
through, over and upon
not only what I see, the great blue-waters,
but also upon my own cloudy heart.
For just a moment
the dark and violent waves glow with a joy
unexpressable, as do
the tears mysteriously appearing
in my eyes -
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