Wave

swirling mass of droplets yearn

pressing all edges as they stretch

growing yet not quite grown

still held by a cumulus net

time passes- strength will rise

no single pursuit - a groups strain

eyes on the churning mass below

until soon becomes now. Peace. Rain.

For the ideal image for this poem, check out @mcarthur1's work here.

Written on September 5th, 2018. Every time I write a poem or read a forgotten one, I wonder how I could have ever stopped.

Unrelated thought. Are you secure online?