Rain on the Ocean

The ocean is 
waiting there,  
pock marked 
in the way that 
dew hangs 
from jeweled firs, 
how it
melts 
the soft snow 
beneath it, 
and  
farther out,  
the white painted light 
is made ghostly 
where the horizon meets it 
and the white foam fray 
and the clouds brushed 
and bruised 
and half the ocean 
drawn through curtains 
of starch-gray lace 
the underside unraveled,  
the tassels 
dangling into the salt currents,  
long strings hanging there 
like blades of grass 
carried in a robin's beak, 
strands wavering in the wind-blow.