At the twist of the year, watching the whirl

of the world on the cliffs, a chaos of waves

flail in the sky, as the heavens weave

pearly curls of ivory. This storm

is skirring your ragged December 

through pebbles between your feet. Bubbling

suds creep to your ankles, the ooze

sucking the scum of your failures

back to the source. From the brook by the bridge,

fresh water pumps up in funnels

to skitter a river into the salt. Watching

this meeting of waters and ferment,

you ponder the froth     unable to fathom

the moment the stream stops     being a stream

and succumbs     to a vastness of sea.