She wove a net of silver thread,

And sang of shallow, painted tides.

She drew me near with infrared,

A mystic light where water hides.

She carved a space to make a home,

Then left the broken timber bare.

I thought she’d drowned in sudden foam,

And disappeared in skinny air.

But I was built from quiet stone,

I did not chase the rising gale.

I stood in silence on my own,

And watched her pause to see me fail.

I did not run to catch her spark,

Nor weep upon her empty shore.

She faded fast into the dark,

And drifted dry like those before.

She slipped upon the ebbing glass,

A drop returned into the sea.

I watched the fading ripples pass,

And felt her waves wash over me.