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