I see Her sometimes,
her lovely face,
in my dreams and in my daytime reveries
asleep upon the beach,
and in the sunrise, in the dawning of my day,
in children, in their imaginative play,
in each word I write upon this page,
in memory, inside the light,
in my imagination.

I hear her sometimes,
her reverberating voice
in the wandering winter wind,
when the leaves begin to rustle on the trees,
in the sudden whisper of a summer breeze,
on the walls inside the cliff side caves,
and in the rolling ocean waves.

. . . Sometimes, it is as though they never were,
the wandering winter wind,
her face,
her voice,
all that exists,
. . . and yet, I hear her calling me
from deep inside the white coil of a rose,
one day I’ll answer to her call
and like the waves
I will return back home
. . . into her ocean.