Seagulls break the morning and you wake.
Looks cumulus today. The breeze is fair.
The waves still growling at the sand.
You caress the cave-wall tally marks.
Been here all your life it seems.
You tend to the routine. Rinse your beard.
Sweep the cave. Thank the sun and the fish
and the palms. Fuss about the raft. It's ready
to launch the day a sail washes up on shore.
A sail may never come. What then?
Is the place it would take you so different
from the one you go to nights the sky gives
every star and all that luminescence washes in
and carries you, molecule by molecule, out into
the stream of everything? You wonder.