It's 11:11
and for the first time
after a very long time
I'm wishing for myself
and not for you

Sing to me, o southern hill
where my mother lies,
she near the river
where other children
only her eyes could spy,
her fingers feel.
Willow trees, arcing oaks,
pillows made of amethyst and
amaryllis, beechnut spread,
linen spread by old Mill Creek,
cattle grazing, hazy August
afternoons, all alone was she
except in fantasy.
No love from Mother,
her Father farther
away than Ozymandias.
Tears she used
in her high tea;
no spoon had she.
She wept beneath a yellow sun,
a sister to the gentle sea,
the golden waves of wheat.

Tod Howard Hawks

she walked on the pier
to be closer to the heart of the sea.

as the girl was waiting for
the waves,
the shells
and the moonlight
to empower her once again,
some tears fell on her cheek;
they were cold and salty.

the wind was calling her
by the name
given at the birth of the universe.
the marine creatures
were humming and scampering.

she couldn't be helped that night
but the sea was still her salvation.

it was high time
she had become a mermaid.

her feet never touched the land again;
she went further the end of the pier.