Great, grey light seeping gloom
Into the sleepy afternoon room.
The guitar stands ready with chords.
Chiming wood expectant.
Strung out on a sofa bed waiting.
I have words on the tip of my tongue,
Words that never carry far enough.
They fall on deaf ears,
If they reach ears at all.
Delicate shells. Pressed vacuum.
Hear the drawing of the wave's knuckles
Across the back of a beach.
You can't teach the sigh of an ocean
To a moonstruck tide.

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