The quality of light from the window
makes a space between here and there.
Yet you put me here
searching the harbor
and I’m struggling to find the sparkled prism
now, you are gone.
The ocean makes me think of you,
with crinkly eyes, the edges of your hair
When I look the other way I think
you’ve appeared again,
yet nobody speaks.
The seagull cries and pecks at the seed.
© copyright 2013 by Susan E. Rowland