like all life, in turn,
the wind falls for the sea.

he whispers secrets to her surface,
the words of every voice
that had screamed or spoken into his midst.

the sea retorts:
"I can not love," she says
"there are too many a ship's wake
I still bear on the skin of my pride,
those vessels that had torn holes into me,
sunk, to my depths,
and, now, all they do is decay."

the wind heaves a sigh, and a town, picturesque,
seven thousand three hundred and fifty-four miles away,
rustles under the front.

the land, that child, bristles, fumes and
the wind brushes the sweat from its forehead,
sings lullabies,
'til the earth does not heave any more.

under the choir of stars, the wind weeps
the sea takes his misery in,
and, feeding her countless children,
she sings back
to the wind:

"you breathe the life into me,
without you, all my organs would cease,
but dry your eyes, love,
all your ripples on my skin
serve to tear me apart,
and, by this moonlight,
I shall not know
where either of us begin"

the wind calmed, smiled,
fell and drew near to his lover,
sighed once more, content and delicate,
and, on a shoreline
four thousand five hundred and thirty-seven miles away,
a child, watching the sun fade,
felt the slightest hint
of a salted breeze caressing her hair.