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, minutes by pace,
and prone to sudden rains. I am not
myself but am a force of nature,
the orchard is not an orchard but
is a sea of white and fragrant pink,
millions of blossoms unfurling
overnight to comfort me  with apples
for I am sick, sick, sick of love.