She is my lover.
Each beat of Her heart
a metronome, keeping these bones
in time with the day’s end
and rise.
This driftwood body
longs to reside inside Her:
taste those curves of green,
swim in her blue salt valleys,
concealed in the wooden knots
cascading down Her
weary shoulders.
We write with no purpose
but to mimic the birdsong
She composed for us.
We try to return the favour.