I sit on the shore
writing sea-thoughts in the sand
with a bird-feather quill.

The knife-sharp blue sky
sings little songs
of clouds and bird-cries.

And wonder, long asleep,
begins to open the doors
of my shut-tight soul.

Names, faces, dreams, and loves
rise gently in the breeze of memory
and become words on the sand.

And the curious waves rush in
and carry them away
for the mermaids and drowned sailors to read.

And then the sea and I forget,
because we do not choose
to remember.