By Kelly Grace Thomas


Winter beach whisper sonnets of independence

against the pale pinch of sand storms.

You remember the time you were here before,

how every cell begged for forgiveness of self.

The breaking wave of confession,

the call of hungry seagulls

are all homes with scattered windows.

The breeze would never sit still.

Chapped hands in pockets reach for understanding.

Is this the same story with different characters?