Cold, soft, dusting skies,
Sweep away the gentle night.
Rich violet brings promises of the dawn-
Glittering stars grow quiet-then are gone.

The lulling whisper of the sand
Silences itself, once again.
Lays dormant and muted at your feet,
Voices submitting to enveloping sleep.

Soon the sun will scream it's rise,
And blaze relentless across empty skies,
Beat down upon empty land;
Beat down upon empty man.

And I'll wait patient-I'll wait for dark ,
Wait for the noise of day to depart-
And in its wake the cocooning reprieve,
Of the endless, satin star-lit sea.

A watercolor film reel.
            That is how Olive is to me,
Dancing in the dandelions,
Grinning chicklet white teeth.
Olive smells like summer-
Like salt and a wild sea;
A mane of seashell secrets,
And eyes that mirror the gleam.

The gleam of self-realization,
The leaping fires in your dreams,
But in such a supple pastel haze,
That quietly, sings and sways—

Like hot cotton in your ears
Behind your eyes
And round your throat,
But the tune is gentle and smells of the ocean-
Olive’s own anecdote.

And I remember, at the end, she put the sea into a jar-
Sand, colored glass, and rippling waves of ocean water.
It felt like a tribute; a memory-
Like death.
When olive left the coast line,
And her glass ocean world-
Glinting crystals in the sunlight-
On the cat walk,
Still sat.