The profound sense of loss came even before
You’d unladed the anchor. You cast away,
An unmoored vessel, without a true north,
Approaching nothing but the fabled horizon.
With every dark and dreary dusk, turbulent
Tempest, and scorching summer’s day,
There’s impetus to turn around
(And on some days you do).
Yet when each dawn adorns
A kaleidoscope of pink sand dunes/
Undulating rolls of candied cotton, you’re reminded:
How inaccessible this sky was from the shore.