One day I wrote her name upon the strand
One day I wrote her name in trampled sand.
Waves bustled in and flattened it away
like laundry irons scorching in my hand.
I wrote again. Again the words fell prey
to water. There is nothing I can say
that could withstand the sine of water's rise.
All scrawls are subject to the brine decay,
and even gods will sit in nameless skies.
Except for you. Sly time cannot devise
you die in dust. Let water green your name
and poems hold where bodies compromise.
And if the heavens hate your heathen fame,
let them send some fat reaper to subdue
your blood but miss the sparking flint of you.