The line of the ocean is gone, and I have nothing,
shimmering white and winter
ghosts into angels dancing in snow-- it will come back, the sun-shine-sounds, the soft, sheet-showers, the cool, bell-blue breeze, the summer sips of rich, red wine. Deep in the damp dawn fuchsias flower,
a seagull spirits into clouds.
Searching for a heaven, I sit, wingless,
wondering why earth holds ties
and binds feet to rest.