Slightly, the tree sways.
Carefully arranged books and new blankets
Stand beside the watcher, the explainer,
Who, in turn, dreams of a valley
(Where hopes sleep kissed and roots drink deep)

Unlike the bright bay,
Where flounder and cobia
Flash through glints between skis

Such wasted potential —
To be so much and to barely be —

Out here, in the valley,
There is an infinity to what I have not been,
Unlike the bright bay
And perhaps it’s best to let the matter rest