Ruins of Renaissance

The tide has fallen.
I missed its rise,
was ignorant of its retreat,
but I feel its ebb.
I know only of its heights
by the high water line,
higher than I now sit.

I wonder
did the tide carry me gently,
floating,
still on its surface
cradled in its motherly caress,
or was I overwhelmed,
drowned beneath
its pulsing
pounding surge.
My water pregnant clothes
refuse to birth an answer,
so I shiver in response.

These questions flee
with the whirling of the stars,
until I am left with but one:
when will the tide
reach for me again?

And the moon stares on,
mocking in its arch.