leaning on her staff
shuffling barefoot
she wavers slightly
heavy with the moon’s dark spill.

a raw star whispers from the foam:
tell me a story about me and the sea.

so she speaks,
spilling salt and history,
rocks rattling in her pockets,
strands of silver falling into green,

as dusk crabs scuttle home
and the sky becomes womb-red—
another cycle she must carry.

leaning on her staff
shuffling barefoot
she asks the waves:
how many more moons?