It is strange,

we forget the little things…

we stumble over desire

in our hurry to be there.

I sit alone

and count the waves,

and write a ditty

to myself.

There are lone-shore breakers

and fickle blue swells…

the latter I like best,

though they are cruelest.

You see,

I have wondered

at the well-worn path

that is traveled first

and last.

I have shared the secrets

of gold sun

with the night,

and clung to its embrace

after,

because the telling

told me that I loved it.

But now my secrets,

like some ocean swell,

have gurgled

and died…

I cannot speak them with you,

for you are the sun now

and though once the night,

I must seek

a new evening.