Hours from the ocean and yet
I am the tide, longing for return
and mourning slack. I am a draft
that haunts this house, measuring
hours by rooms, and prone to sudden
rains. I am not myself but am a force
of nature, led to migrate by degree
latitude, percentage of sun.
The orchard is a sea of white
now and pale pink, millions
of blossoms unfurling overnight
to comfort me with apples
for I am sick of love.