In that November off Tehuantepec
Night stood still with the slopping of the sea.
Just some moonly white melted on the deck.
And made one think of tickled chatter
And smooth noises. A slow mint green,
Tip-toeing through the white, pristine.
Of ocean, sways her wavy tendrils
Who then, stays to watch the fun that
She chippers, playing with her lashes.
Chippers? The buzzing hovers round
the crocheted waves of blue flex and coil
Ce fut ma vie, mon amour, le bleu.
The sky whispers a tune of chirp
And smiles gazing down at the curvy
Tendrils. They reply with sweet nothings.
Pearly clouds fluffen up the open space
like freshest pillows feathers flurry
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