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High Tide

The sidewalk is a sliver
splint into the comfort zone
of an oak pride
that keeps us from wandering.

The thunder is a hammer
swept into a shelter
of stubborn nails
that satisfies the framing.

The swell is a diamond
extracted from a cave
of fool’s gold
that illuminates the canary.

Low Tide

The trail is a trap
cloaked as a road
of highway’s grace
that corrupts the globe.

The foundation is a pebble
skipped across a pond
of flattering intentions
that sinks into the darkness.

The house is a transition
mobile on an interstate
of circuitous endeavors
that drifts into the ocean.

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About R. Ward

A husband, father, teacher, and struggling man of God.

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