When Moon Calls…

When you call,

Our tide flows toward shore

And ebb rushes back to sea,

I want to walk on beach

Under your fully lit face,

Howling dogs in 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 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 heart strings,

Resuscitating my memories long ago.


The Year of Rat

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