Low Tide Island

There is the music,

cherry-lip sweet. There is

the soft electrical hum,

the occasional slamming of the keys.

Row by row, the page is

dampened by my mourning,

rent by the iron words.

I listen for that sound,

that voice for which I wait


each day

awaiting its return

as the shore awaits the ocean

eternally bound to its edges

and weeping into its sands.