I see her sometimes, her face,
in my dreams and in my daytime reveries,
asleep upon the beach,
in the dawning of my day,
in children, in their imaginative play,
inside these words I write,
in memory, in the light of my imagination.
I hear her sometimes, her voice,
in the blackbird’s song,
when the leaves begin to rustle on the trees,
in the sudden whisper of a summer breeze,
in the echoes off the walls of cliff side caves,
in the returning of the rolling ocean waves.
. . . Sometimes, it is as if they never were,
her lovely face, the whispers in her voice,
the rolling ocean waves,
and yet, sometimes I hear her calling me
inside the white unopened rose bud,
one day I’ll answer to her call
and like the waves I will return back home
. . . into her ocean.