“Daily I muse on her; I muse and fret”
I read these lines carved upon the ocean,
The water’s fancies verse of what may yet
Become of the object of my passion;
Were I a religious man, I would pray,
Though many sins have distanced me from God,
And I am far from being a man of faith
Thanks to the Dead Winter that made me old.
As for words carved upon the ocean’s face,
There’s chance my place is to write over them.
Under the Redbud Tree that shelters me,
I sit, stare out across the wondrous sea;
I yearn to be one of the foolish men
Who wrote the words, laying their hearts to