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Once upon a time there lived a man,
who loved a love he never knew.

To her he’d write long letters,
and sing his made up songs,
and to her he’d rant endlessly
about his goings on.

He never saw her face
or how she moved around;
he never knew her height
or her voice’s lilting sound.

But still, he kept on calling
to air, to wind, to see,
and wondered on her whereabouts
and, “is she calling me?”

Until one day, the tide came in
and with it, paper laden,
were volumes of pages, wet and faded,
from the unknown, unseen maiden.

“I see you,” said these salt stained lines,
“through air, through wind, I see,
I hear you, too, through all this time,
I hear you, calling me.”

And he waited there, on ocean’s edge,
straining for the source;
the origin of all these words
that through his veins did course.

And sunset after sunset,
after rising tides and falls,
he waited there, till he grew old,
on sand and kelp and sea gulls’ calls

and as he closed his eyes he asked,
“why did you never come?”
Said she, from voices on the wind,
“o, never did I leave…

… for I’m the voice inside you, man.

The one that never goes,

that loves you unconditionally,

and all your secrets knows;

and hear I am, yes here I am,

and on and on and going…

..as endless as the white capped waves,
tidal, and ever-flowing.”

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