Your storms are battering the coastline
             of my heart,
your angry seas boil over my shore,
     your waves lash my rocks,
             and lash again--
the trees are down, the electricity
          is out all over the Island of Me.

I am a disaster area. Declare me.

In the pure windswept white-out of
           spitting surf,
standing drenched and sea-spray soaked,
   I do not see your light,

and you can not hear me
  calling out to you, or praying
          for this storm to end, with new life
in the tidal pools and a sparkling sea
                 for tranquil reflection.

August 23, 1996


All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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