Clamor

Lying in bed I look over at you
your hair mussed in every direction.
Greys and whites paint the scape
like the waves and the white foam.
Lines of cream rush against the sandy shore.

Outside my window
wind catches the limbs of the trees
sweeping them one way and then another.
Brushes move the air across the branches
bending with each breath.

Outside no moment of rest.
Will the branches find a time of rest?
Will the wind retire as day warms?
How long do I sit here staring through the glass?

Looking for rest
among brown and green.