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by Jared Swenson


The sun melts into sea, painting
hills of warm poppies
on open sky.

Gulls glide through color in strings
of silhouetted wings

While Hope sings Halah in my head, waves
churn white and then extend
too thin over sand.

She kneels by the shore and she breaks
a branch of smooth driftwood
in a worn hand.

I think it will always be like this. I think God
will give us nothing but nets
and pure water.