THE LIGHTHOUSE
Third cup of coffee
between rain, wind, and fog
friends forever coming to gather
under December clouds, and I’m still sleepy
like some lighthouse keeper
left alone for the winter months,
looking out to the grey silent Atlantic
full of daydreams, thinking of her voice
once near, oh so near,
waking to her night whispers
talking in her sleep again and again,
a memory in a journal, dated and put aside,
now
searching for mysteries in the waves
crashing below, foam coming and going
to darker depths, and the coffee is strong
time to walk, letting the sea rain cover me
in good mornings after such dreams.
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