Seafoam green is a lie.
Sitting here on the beach, wet, muddy, salty, sticky, and sandy,
A thrashing wave creeps up to me, enlaced in a doily of seafoam.
It is not green.
Have the artists been lying to us?
Surely, they’d never do such a thing – but it appears that they did.
Purple grasses bloom on nearby cliffs
And the sun shines down onto the seemingly barren rocks
As crabs and crustaceans scuttle around, unnoticed.
Waves leap and somersault before collapsing into a tendril of saltwater,
Reluctantly being pulled back from the shore
Like a lost love saying a final goodbye.
And though the moon will pull the ocean’s marionette strings over and over as she waits for her turn to
Bring light to our world,
Soon the waves will calm, and all that is left on the rocky coast will be seafoam.
But for now, the sun will shine and tourists will come and go,
To take their vacation photos and splash in the icy water,
To have their picnics and hunt for seashells,
And to live their lives as if they were simply happy figures in one of Monet’s peaceful paintings of the beach.
Tourists will come and go,
Donning their vermilion swimsuits.
Waving their lemon-yellow parasols.
Showing off their cornflower blue sandals as they play in the sand.
Vermilion, lemon, and cornflower all got their glory,
So where’s the justice for seafoam?
Summertime is a lie.
It seems that the few months we have been allotted to disconnect and rediscover ourselves have run Out In a moment
And the leaves have lost their color and fallen off the branches in the blink of an eye.
Returning to the mundane rhythm of everyday life is always difficult.
Returning to the echoes of your past and the whispers of your future,
Returning to the biting breeze that makes you walk a little bit faster,
Returning to the feeling of all eyes on you but nothing you can do about it,
Dressing in hats, scarves, and jackets of vermilion, lemon, and cornflower.
Returning to the longing for those summer evenings when all you had to think about was the color of
Returning to the days getting shorter and shorter,
Returning to losing the version of yourself that it took all summer to find.
Autumn, winter, and spring all got their glory,
So where’s the justice for summer?
Where’s the justice for seafoam?