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The Mediterranean

Roxanne Noor

Updated: Apr 5, 2024





In the margin of summer,

I stand naked and barefooted

on the edge of the Mediterranean.

I wade into this pool of undying energy,

this nation of blue that does not stop giving.


Water pertains to everything,

the stem of a rose,

the skin of a strawberry

the constellation of a body.


The human learns obedience,

to listen to the pull of this greater force.

Nature over man, nature as man, nature as truth.


The ego pales as my heels are dragged along the debris of rock.

I acknowledge my fragility.

Each gust of wind is an invisible muscling arm.

Each break of wave is a celebration of white foam.


It’s all so uncomplicated here,

where time is a circle,

and Sunday is eternal.


In the aquatic rhetoric of the sea,

joy is not abstract.

It is the serious delight of solitude.

The water holds no lack.


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