low, the fog rolls in at tide;
cold, the wind blows down and soft –
wandering and wondering,
a few stray birds aloft —
harsh, the thoughts that crown my brain,
thoughts of when and where and how,
everything that never was
just had to happen now —
a kiss beneath the summer sun
a vision shared by only one
a friend to nomads everywhere
a common man, a pleasure rare —
steps that lead me off and on,
tempera paints that fade and crack:
every little work of art
turning in, and
looking
back
To share is human:
