When the rains came, she retreated to harbor for haven.
The umbrella outstretched in somber funereal black
Allowing the thundering winds while making water craven
to bleach the bearing bones of the burden laden back.
Because it is always okay (or will be), the sun returns
She is gone before dawn with nary a mark left graven
From the ancient predictions foreseen in the almanac
Her gypsy blood would eternally call her the sea maven
The depth of her affection, like the ocean, a partial amnesiac.