Coldness, and my own perceptions in the surf,
The early morning shush and hiss of sand
And the force of water. I’m staring straight
At the wave, and it will insist on breaking,
Returning. I could fight the sea, Cuchulain-like,
In my passion, an immortal act of mortal futility.
But love is the gull that floats beyond the breaker,
Ghost-gray on gray water, light as the morning star—
Resilient, stubborn perhaps. Instead, I blink.
