Seaweed strewn high tide mark.

The sea rushes in

But quietly in the night To make her mark And state her limits.

The moon has asked this of her And she will comply But only this far; Inside the line, she says

I will come again But until then You may stand over there And be assured of warmth From the source of all you know.

All lines are real At least in our heads And sometimes around our feet In the regular beat Of her sandy heart.