MASTER COLLECTION

Summer after summer, year after year, people come and go.
The benches remain at the beach.

Still stand the structures, corroded by salt
Swept to shore on sea breezes.

Old wood, cracked and tarnished,
Revarnished over and over.

The sea is the same while the benches are not. But who can tell?

The benches remain.
They are here, at the beach to stay.

Slowly, regally, she glides across the majestic sky,

Every deliberate move leaving golden traces.

Dripping, shiny traces of sparkling liquid gold, cradled amid sheets of clouds.

Liquid gold so gentle, blanketing desert trees.

Lovingly, she caresses all she passes by;

Lingering, for she does not want to bid goodbye.

"Let me touch you just once more before I go,"

Soft golden streams fading and blurring in the distance.