Poem: Limits

Limits

It was a bustling place once. You can tell.
Pylons where the pier once stood still stand.
Up on shore, a foundation, stacked stone.
Little else.

It’s an odd place for a pier,
where the tide falls so low there are mud flats.
There would be only a few hours a day
when the water would be high enough to launch,

or to come home,
Leaving half the time to sail,
or flounder in storms
with no place to go.

About this poem.

For some reason this morning, I am thinking of people being trapped in their situations. I know too many.

The picture was taken in the salt marsh near Provincetown, MA.

Tom

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