Where in wandering did I go wrong,
or in sailing plot such course?
Now my heart hears echoes like a song,
that resonates from golden source.

That in breathing in I can't let go,
does my error lie in body, or in soul?
What is this sight that holds me so,
as if a wanderer could find his goal.

How is it that that which freezes
also frees me, then sinks me deeper below?
Til' gasping I find again the surface breezes
cresting with the waves that grow.

And how does this storm crashing upon me,
with each wave bear true, like sailor seeking home,
or, like vagabond in forest finding perfect comraderie?
Perhaps I am only dreaming, with further lands and seas to roam.

Yet, don't I question rightly any dream that wakes
and stirs, as if to bloom, watering, as if to flourish?
I wonder, as my inhaled breathe like a sappling shakes,
is the storms weight for roots to take, or is it just to crush?

As I gaze on you, you must think I'm dull,
for in this storm you find me in a lull,
but the pause between waves is not empty, but full.
If I found words for you, they would be wonderful!

Still, even if words were found enough to sonnet fit,
for your beauty, I would lack the wit.
Even if I could craft a sunset,
only a sunrise would be adequate.