Oscillating Squall

From the rock

Came water

and salt


lost in the decay of another day. 

I am not a daisy

nor a flower

Nor the herb of Ophelia


I saw her once in the garden

Among the fresh lilies of the river.

A thought that soon would quiver


I felt the pain rush, again


Thoughts quiver.


Only to lose momentum

in the sound


of the sound



of the sound.


Caught in the inoperent, day-dreaming tremor


Of lives gone by with no use

To either.


The smile of a seagull, the gaze of a gorilla 

I am lost in the summertime whimper.


Not with a bang

But a whispering clang


I shiver.


And from the clay came the restless, immovable dagger.