No one has need of knowing, then,
of when and where and why,
of summers spent in solitude
gazing toward the sky,
of windswept months spent
sifting over letters
in the sand,
blown softly
and so gently
to another form,
the foam of oceans
blown across,
the spirit of the waves,
caress the ache of longing
and bring knowing to the grave.
s.k. lindeman