The hull nestles into the sandy bosom of the shore
With a lulling shush.
Syncopated song of life surrounding–
Lapping tide, cicadas in the underbrush.
This kingdom stirs me with its rhythm
Like a cradle in the waves.
I am Annabel unsepulchered
Resurrected from the grave.
Tiny island engulfed by vast space,
Warm and deep.
Space enough to wander, wonder,
Dream, sleep. Sleep.
This journey leaves a longing in its wake–
Thirst only this interior stream may slake.
Upon my knees, merciful relief in the sand,
Arriving home upon this foreign land.
Erin Eby is an Austinite, Writer, Dancer, Creative Director, Mom, Traveler, Hedonist. Not necessarily in that order.