She comes home with a man
       from the city. I haven't been counting
                                    the years she's been gone.
       she comes by to tell me
only to tell me
he's the one she'd marry.

We lived by the sea,
daughter and I.
       I'd take her to the coral crags
when the tide was low
       the waters gently creasing
against the breeze.
We'd harvest balatan
and salungo. Then feast by the shore.

But the sea changes
       takes away sand once land.
          The winds cut open the face of swelling waters.
                                    The tides have hidden our crags forever.

Before leaving, Daughter tells me
she can't recognize our sea.
And all I reply is this:
Neither can I.