The Ocean

When the dawn is not yet pink,
And the dock smells of,
Salt and seagulls,
There is an old woman,
Who sits empty,
By the ocean.

Her hair is whiter than bone,
And as pure as,
A pearl still trapped,
Inside callous and cold and calm —
Edges.

Her skin is a thousand unanswered questions,
With tarnished wrinkles,
And the smell of salt,
And lavender, and lamps —
And love,
And home.

Sometimes, she sings to herself,
But we hear,
Only the echoes of her song,
Like distant bells ringing,
Without a melody.

One day, I sat by her,
Watching the ocean tides,
Roll and roar and rear their spirits,
Reflected in her eyes.

I am no longer convinced,
By the ocean’s truth.
For she’s all of us — and more, and less,
And a memory,
Forgotten right.

Once- if there was once a time,
I asked her who she was.
She said, “my dear, I am…”
She laughed;
And became the waves.