Wet shoes dry in the sun by the water.
Innocent soles strung along for the journey.
A quest for adventure and vitality and fire.
A dash for distance and space and time.

Books brought along, their creased pages flag in the wind,
A collection of scenes from starry-eyed dreams.
Eyes resolute, yet still no cloud to follow.
Impetuous and wont, to reluctant and fallow.

Now, shoes in hand and back at the window,
Forehead pressed against the glass.
Inside, chair, still tipped over and fruit, still half-eaten.
Wet shoes drip on a scarlet zinnia.

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