The angry sea rages.
Beneath a moonless sky
blasts of chill air whip
whitecaps shore-wards.
Buffeted by ink-black gusts
Mother Night shows me
past roads not taken
and lost possibilities.
The angry sea rages but
I face a stubborn truth
about playing make-believe
and cold reality — how
all roads can’t be taken,
our choices like waves
rippling out in every
direction until crashing
upon the beach
of another person’s shore.
