When you call,
Tide flows toward shore,
Ebb rushes back to sea,
I want to walk on the beach
Under your fully lit face,
Howling dogs in the distance,
I want to be your drummer
Beating at the rushing flow,
I want to play flute
To serenade the retreating ebb.
You pull tide relentlessly by the hour
Marking lines on the beach and boulders,
Until the neap tide rests
From coming and going
To rest your arms.
When you call rushing tides
With windswept spray on their backs,
You pull my heartstrings,
Resuscitating my memories long ago.
2020
The Year of Rat
Ring of Fire 
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