Wave Wet Sand
I remember poetry.
In my youth it was a tide-driven wave
climbing the beach of my growing mind,
drowning me in meaning.
That tide has long since ebbed.
Yet the sand still stands in ripples
shaped by the slow retreat
of perfectly told truths.
Mike Finn's Fiction 
Perfect. Your poem *is* one of those perfectly told truths.
Thank you.
Rose
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Thank you, Rose. I’m glad you liked it.
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