Your echo rises in me, lunar, nascent,
The merest curving crescent, yet,
As much I felt your presence in my arms,
it pales before your absence. That
reverberation rocks its moorings, newborn,
taut and straining at the dock.
The calendar's no friend to me,
more diabolical: the clock.
Intent upon the phases of our moon,
before the sea's terrible powers,
I try to mark the days til your return,
but only manage hours.