The heart can think of no devotion
Greater than being shore to the ocean—
Holding the curve of one position,
Counting an endless repetition.

Beyond the passion of colour
the wind is crawling over trees
clawing at loose clothing
and things
not tethered or secure.
Beyond empathic words uttered
it sings hollow
and then a full
roar
settling its breath
to a sigh as it dies
beyond the texture it brings.
With nothing to mark
its existance except thee.

My old vision,
and new life
don't work together.
Thats a reason,
I write...