I am a little bird when I close my eyes, one touch away
from a blood red sunrise.

Sea foam and elks’ moans
are my guides,
the spirits that shall lead me back home to you.

Each night is a crowded night, with ten thousand dreams
vying for my attention.

I have never been of much use with needle and thread,
but give me a ship, with helm and sail,
and I shall find your lost continent, even if I am the last living one.

Time is not content to sit still,
to linger on an orchid, prolong the wave’s crash;
there are other seeds, other waves coming.

I am a winged thing when I close my eyes,
a maker of my own gravity, a windy cry.

We circle when we do not know the way.
If these hearts of ours overlap, have we reached the shore?