"Wood.
Salt. Tin."
"Little soul, do you remember?
You once walked over wooden boards
to a house that sat on stilts in the sea.
It was early.
The sun painted brightness onto the water,
and wherever you sat, that path led directly to you.
Some mornings, the sea road was muted, scratched tin.
Some mornings, blinding.
Then it would leave.
Little soul, it is strange.
Even now, it is early."