I like to write on the surface of things.
At the present the joyful dram.
A wind trade
that is in a glance
a beaux maid.
Who in drifted proto sands
have noticed
my tense moments.
Lingering along
with carpet arodite
in the playing
of whispers removed
from the seesaw ships
mainmast to light
dropped to the brink the glimpse
of city and beach line.
That in the playing of winds
in sands of time what would bring me
to this place of mine?
But that the winds of the city
could use time to endure.
Its inroads layed
on nurtured sunshine.
Moving then through.
Move of the gale
of the rock shore I prevailed.