Train’s low moan rolls
across stubble field sifts
itself through trees’ branches
and like waves’ foam
crawls wet sand
reaches a sun-bleached shell
now lifted to ear in hope
of catching a whisper
across a crowded world
an assurance, a word
that waves’ rhythmic washing
is more than echo of my pulse.
David M. Frye
April 22, 2009
Denton, Neb.
