Elegy at Low Tide
Who knows the impossible sadness
of morning? The tide
going out
without a goodbye,
an empty boat grounded—somebody
must own it—
the rolling howl of wild dogs.
Maybe a bird can try,
somehow sparrow
the absence which holds
a field. You tell me why the scenery
wakes up abandoned, how grief
grows a view. I have
my walking to do, my daily search
for submarines and kindness.
Tom Snyder: Collected Poems 