An old flower withers on the tide. She watches through a window, her thoughts somewhere, a bleak landscape, an overcast sky. Some will see the eastern tides, only once in their life. She sees a white horse, and who rides upon this horse, a man of a distant memory. She gazes ever so often knowing not her fate, but she waits continuously. What are her feelings, was she once an uncultivated flower growing in a garden? Now her days are coming to a close, she watches for the white horse and its rider taking her to a new garden.

Robert J. Matsunaga