From the vantage point of a poet staring at the ocean,
unaware of the hour, the time, or the setting sun,
the waves resembled her deepest passion.
She conjured storms in the hour of the wolf
to devour all the fish that fishermen caught;
her hunger vanished with a single gulp.
All the pages upon pages of poems she molded
turned blank and stale and terrible and horrid;
in the hour of the wolf, the ocean grew cold.
The night scene cast a shadow on the shore,
but her stanza told a tale of infinite sunshine,
even in the depths of the ocean floor.