The tides put melancholy stones into our pockets
And even though
We cannot iron out the sand
So that the sun reflects perfectly
Or falls with lightness
Over the jutting edge of land
We are the wind who speaks to tide-time
And we plan our own ceremony.
We are the local forces
Moving seamist gently.
A thousand agents
Under the water
Against one of us
Should yield joy.
Circa 2002
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