Morning waves 404, but pastel sky merits adore.
Sans salty splashes waking eyes’ saccade, will rising sun awake beach babe’s bod?
Surfer exculpates wind for leaving goal unmet—for rider knows that fails precede every reset.
Water still still, papyraceous and lambent like cellophane, leaves her as stirrer of own starter drink—ready to roll with what comes—whether it bears blue or rosily pink. ; )