Some mornings exist in a void,
so clear and calm I can hear

the morning traffic rushing
over the bridge, something

like fast water or a sea breeze.
What I would not give to see

the ocean today.  We all have
our tides and mine has gone

out for far too long. Even the
smell of salt would act as balm

for this gutting spring tide;
uncovering the most

confidential of tide pools,
the most secret anemones.

I would tug the ocean back
over and watch them bloom.

Apparently, I’m at odds
with the moon, resenting

its waxing in my time
of want.