No one has need of knowing then
    of when and where and why
of summers spent in solitude
    gazing toward the sky
of windswept months spent sifting
    over letters
        in the sand
blown softly and so gently
    to another form
the foam of oceans blown across,
    the spirit of the waves,
caress the ache of longing
    and bring knowing to the grave.

   

Copyright 2006 by SK Lindeman