Untitled

When I'm Tranquil,
I can smell my skin fresh 
from a salty day at the beach. 
Wind racing silently, I absorb the 
transluscant glaze I call air, 
and it breathes me.
My timeless eyes search the infinate 
grains of sand and shell, 
and patiently, 
I find it to be an abnormal paradox; 
so many, yet so few. 

How is that so? 

Why do I still confuse myself with 
wondering words 
-all irrelevant- 
while I can doze on summer afternoons 
with the ocean in 
Cantabile behind me? 

It's irritatingly perfect sometimes, 
yet I'd care not to give it up so soon. 

So I question life with endless metaphors...
A wave crashing into strides of violence and calming, 
retreating hurridly in fear or courage. 

What parody, when I identify the 
crevasses of my skin as flawless, 
crystalline and stunning as a blue diamond uncut. 
I opt to ponder longer on life, wind and towering waves.

Caroline Seagle's Questions:

1. Again, I couldn't find an appropriate title for this poem. I was wondering if you maybe had any suggestions?

2. This poem could be a little too much. I find sometimes while writing I get a little carried away, which can be a bad thing. Is there anything that doesn't seem to fit or make sense?

3. Should I be more clear with the basic meaning of the poem? It's supposed to explain how I felt on that particular day. I found it hard to express that.