We search the far horizon from the safety of our shore
The incoming tide furtively trickling in between our toes.
The icy water recedes, then comes again
With perilous momentum lapping by stealth
Until it casts aside the fragile markers
of our ordinary lives.
Fists clenched, we hold fast.
Not tides but numbers mark the hours
And all the while the endless weeks …
Then months of isolated days
Fall through our fingertips
onto the shifting sands.