This too-big sky that does daily darken
and indulge less romantic hearts than mine,
caresses sad, ragged man to harken;
he lay there on the coastline, breathing brine.
So far away, he did fail to mention
that the sea had made his fondest wish true.
So close, it was plain his main intention
was to season as he sat down to rue.
Fail me now, somberly habitual
crest-fallen snow, gingerly coloring
his fingers and face. Finding ritual.
He has lost the ring and is souring.
When the last of the mighty waves have crashed,
there he lay, waiting forever -as asked.