When you have nothing more to say,
Just walk the beach
With the sun behind the dunes,
No one in sight for miles,
And the tide coming in,
This clean, rough music
You will hear
All the long drive home,
And hear it still
All the next night through
In your own bed,
And hear it still
In the bright quiet of the woods
Awaiting snow, and, still,
You will have nothing more to say.
Out of repose the truth springs. — Patrick Kavanaugh
