(Poem #319 on new numbering scheme)
The sea was reaching long arms through the rifts of green, wet valleys; grasping at the peaks of mountains with her cloud-hands; fine-grained snow was falling on the beach in steady clumps; the eyes of all the world were blinking, each a ghost that watched the other ghosts alone.
– this poem may be related to another poem I wrote long ago. In any event, the setting is Mahhalian.
