Even here,

nestled far away

in the mountains,

what pulls at the sea

pulls at my salty

water logged body.

You there, boney white moon,

hiding behind the trees –

you not so sneaky culprit.

Regardless of phase,

cloud cover,

daytime or night,

a great tidal dance

you conduct,

rising across beaches,

surging within these veins

(and not once, but twice daily).

I will go about this business,

stack my firewood,

then stir the stew.

Meager my praise

when life itself

the perpetual applause

for your unending encore.