Journey to the shore

When a girl's a girl no more,
and childish things she puts away,
she'll make the journey to the shore.

Of course, we'll beg her to delay,
but find our words have little sway
when a girl's a girl no more.

Though she'll giggle, dance, and play,
and blush at times, and sometimes pray,
she'll make the journey to the shore

and find that barefoot at the bay
the sand's more fitting than the clay
when a girl's a girl no more.

Rushing through the ocean's spray,
the rolling waves, the water's fray,
she'll make the journey to the shore.

In spite of all that we might say,
and though we'll plead for her to stay,
when a girl's a girl no more
she'll make the journey to the shore.

Maritiming

I always find my way back here,
where slender barefoot curves impress the sand,
and virgin waves lift foam-white skirts
to sacrifice their softness on the strand.

Here where we met,
youths indoctrinated in the seaside rites,
searching seething shores to find ourselves amid
bikini days and margarita nights.

Where the water meets the wash,
swishing in the surf to stir a rhyme,
you found my sun soaked self amid the shells
and sat with me a while to maritime.

I was stricken with your carefree laugh,
despite your golden skin, and form so slim,
and sun bleached hair pulled back a tortuous tight,
and eyes so blue they made the sea seem dim.

And laughing still, you stayed,
as hand in hand we walked the water's trace,
and arm in arm we slipped down with sun,
and lips to skin we followed the embrace.

We discovered rhythms.
In a boldly swelling, rising, rolling, rush,
we lost ourselves in churning turbulence
before softly sliding back into a hush.

I found you then,
like the rowdy gull finds grace in flight.
Those moments that I hovered over you
are the only moments everything was right.

I often find my way back here,
as age engulfs me in a creeping pain:
an evening at a far off summer shore,
and a girl that I would never see again.