Only At The Beach

Rainbows inside
A waning glass
of pale golden wine,
perspiring inside a casual grip –
Like little islands or skeleton hands,
patterned white fingertips press
the drink against thirsty lips.
Stress wound around
the rim tighter than a spool,
Remembering to let go
of the uncertainties and
watch prisms of light
cast shadows on the ground,
enjoying strums of
pleasant guitar sounds
floating out to sea;
Only at the beach.

Poetry and Photography by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2010

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