The tide has turned,
the milk has soured.
I grow more lonely
by the hour.

The smoke is thick,
my nostrils burn,
I am awaiting
your return.

From sea and sky
the voices cry that
love is all and
none can die.

A lonely shell
upon the beach
is lying here
within my reach.

I pick it up,
and in my palm
I hold the present
healing balm.

Vicki Woodyard