Father time, is often visioned as a man of winter – But if I were to paint him, 
He’d come from waves. He’d carry a barnacle-encrusted pocket watch, within a red satin petticoat, and no matter the salinity of sea,
Or how long he’s been washed away,
He arrives dry, smelling of seagrass and cherished like an orchid bud,
For the nourishment it takes to bloom.

He is called upon in many ways like lighthouses guide ships ashore –
Hears the fisherman hooks, chime against the gust of wind, the song of Gulls
Are used as a compass for the coastline break. He walks the fogged beaches,
Reclaiming lost treasures in the form of every beaming eye,
Who watches the deep blue currents, the sunless sky,
Who sees the gray in all its shades, in all its brilliance, and does not wish for anything more.