The tide rushes in as fog rolls through a vacant shoreline,

“land ho” has vanished with wavelengths existing long ago.

Even a sleepless sun can’t shine through emptiness.

Perhaps a script in a single tin can will exchange the season,

Alas, a glass bottle, a last reason to change:

Rebuild a ship, sail the ocean, Grace will free you.

And out from once silenced lips, “Land Ho!”

-James M. Maynard