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The Sea — Again

February 11, 2006


I was brought up in New England

by the shore

And many nights I think

of the fog and the mist
of the smell of the sea
of the sound of the waves

And I need to be free.

I remember the feel of sun-drying

salty wet skin

And the good ache of my back and hands

While rowing a dory on the water
of the cold spray upon me caused by
wet oars being wind-whipped
As they are drawn out for another stroke

And I know I must be free — again.

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