Ebb πŸ–‹
There is something in the crack of a wave
that echo of foamy fists unfurling
against a glittering bank of sand waiting
to be stolen away
in the curling fingers
of the vast and writhing sea.

Wined πŸ–‹
I do not know which vines mothered you,
Where they climbed and intertwined,
Or what heat you knew
From the unblinking sun upon your skin.

A memory of slate and smokey honey lingers on my tongue,
But I cannot place it.
Like the hands that held your ripened fruits,
It is gone before it’s understood.