Seventeen short years,
I followed the prints
That I never thought
Would fade from firm sands.
And before the moon
Moved the tide up the shore,
Erasing fast the marks
Of our future and past,
You wondered over water
To the horizon far,
While I, unbalanced by breakers
Realized at distance:
These dying sunsets,
At the crumbling edge of time,
Burn their brightest images
Into the heart’s mind.