the birds begin their evening declensions,
note by note, the grammar of praise.
The air cools. I close the window to a crack,
the pale sky falling out of sight, yoked
now to darkness. I write at my desk by the light
of a lamp: a small moon turning the tide.
How fathom the mysterious waters
in which my soul swims, finning stars?
The clock ticks but time sleeps
until I return to the bone-white shore,
a wave from far away, heartbeat of the ocean,
tugging at the wagging brown tongues of words.
This poem appeared in the Crosswinds 2019 Poetry Contest Anthology.