I envy you,
you who call yourselves writers.
I envy anyone who knows
exactly what to call themselves,
instead of being not so sure.
Instead of being someone different every day,
and never quite who you want to be.
The most important part of surfing
Is the swell, not the crash.
Is not the same true of love?
My fingers itch to write about eyes so endlessly blue that they defy metaphor. To compare them to an expanse of sky is to do them an injustice. To liken them to the sea would be trite and inaccurate. Maybe not everything beautiful is meant to be captured in a poem. Maybe the things that are the hardest to describe are poetry in themselves.