Board, I dissociated you from the beach. You may thank me by sticking to my feet.

When we spilled and you thwacked me back, I heard a zampogna’s burst—followed by silence.

A nimiety of wax will not sync us; we need to connect my skill with your stability.

That rack of pigeon wood has a place reserved, but our home is of waves, not lathes.

Sometimes, we may fall. More often, we will glide. Never will we idle. : )