The sea is nearly silent around her.
A faint skitter of fiddler-crabs upon the sand connects
to a murmur of the night-wind in palm trees overhead.
Her lover tide is making low complaints like the ache of earth
caressing and bitter against an expectant land.
She keeps half-awake the anguished spirit of self-love,
to half-lull it with a soothing song to ease the embers from the brand.
The moment pales—a broken trail of sparks on water in the east,
a splash of crimson paint so frail it cannot last.
It leaves like a night to a brand-new day.