This simple dance
revolves around itself
repeating intricate figures
until its inevitable end.

And then?
A riddle wrapped
in the loose skin of the night
beckons to us all
the certainty of death
leaves us wondering
while stumbling along this frosted
winter shore.

A thousand times
a thousand ships
have sailed daily
and sent nary a missive home.

The signal fires are burning
on forested headlands
here along this rugged coast.
Dark and solemn capes
gather the pelting rain
into their skirts.

The signaling smoke
from fir-fed fires
wraps itself in salt spray
serves as a beacon for the lost
a message to the departed.

Yet not a word
not a message in a bottle
from those who have set forth.
180 degrees of the compass
and not a sail.
The sea splendid and empty.

If no news is good news,
then bliss is our birthright.
If no news is something else
again,
then simple silence
will be our wage.