Longing

There is

a breeze, past

the empty seat next

to me, this park bench

shadow, reaching out over

the harbor, there is

a breeze and

it carries

past the hill,

over the water, no

waves, but

the sprinkle of a crest,

a thousand crests, 

rippling, the

sun, which must 

set, it lingers,

not yet.

My throat

is dry, can barely 

breathe, the breeze 

fills, with its swell,

I rise,  still

not able to say 

what needs 

(to be).

There are

sailboats, the

breeze fills them, they

could travel

a thousand miles,

they could

carry a man, like

me, to the

place where 

I long to 

be.