The Star

I wish I were at the crests of waves,
Looking out over the lapidary waters
Lapping, all facets of burnt ruby brilliance,
While the sun touches the western edge of the distant shore
And the gulls fly low, skimming the water for food.
I would hold myself against the tight winds, the slashing winds,
The winds that sear my shivering arms even as the golden sun
Can crisp the burning waters' edge; the furrowed sands
Would scatter at their might beneath my wrinkled toes
And my shadow project like a monolith, unwavering,
Longer with the falling sun and shorter, then diminishing, as cool night sets
Along the starry blight of timeless sky, eternal
In her distance, a cloak as soft
As all the bars of a prison wall. Is there no star out there,
In tutelary grace, who watches the ever revolving, ingrown fields of space
Alone, utterly alone, but casting a motionless, reluctant gaze
Unknowing and unknown on all the hidden parks?