part of the National Poetry Month 2020 series

The tide of the world has gone out
again. Our pools are smaller, drying up.
Look up — the stars still waver in their places.
Is there no moon tonight, or is its backside
scorning all our misplaced pride? The ocean keeps
its opinions to itself, but we can hear
it murmur. The sande, the birds—we're tired
of it all. A tree is needed now, for times like
these: its shade, the branches drooping
to the ground, heavy with fruit — but still, that breeze
blows over the hills, from the far-away and long-
forgotten sea, over our backs, returning yet again.