Marco Island

A span of so many miles
your eyes couldn’t see the end of it.
Sunlight beamed off of the surface
mirroring the bright star’s fierce glare
up until dropping off into nothingness.
The importance of discerning crystal blue
from calming green became a pastime.
White sand held precedence
over stale, boring normalities of other offerings.
Five-fingered creatures met their destiny
with bleach-white dollars burrowed in the land.
Tides washing up treasures,
fortunes familiar and new alike.

My feet, barefoot by tradition,
stomped through the damp, child-high blades of grass.
But their field of towering swords was
no match for my perseverance.
My attitude was that of a fierce little girl,
cape tied ’round neck,
walking stick taller and fatter than I in tow.
Or maybe better called, a dragging stick.
But when the grass slowly sloped into
the water, thin strip of white sand
giving it’s all to be deemed a shore,
I stood my log proud and upright.
Leg perched, fist on hip
in the most conquering manner possible.
This was it, my happy place
where life’s endless questions were answered.
Where everything I wanted came true.
It took a day’s worth of tedious preparation,
but this
was surely
It.

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