In the restless embrace of the sea,
Spume rises—
A fleeting whisper, 
A dance of delicate defiance.

Not quite water, not quite air,
It cavorts on the lip of a wave,
A mirage of froth and transient dream.

Where does it begin, where does it end?
Such boundaries elude,
For spume is the child of flux,
Born in the interstice of here and gone.

Moments of silver gleam,
Caught in the sunlight's fickle gaze,
It shimmers, then vanishes,
As if it never was.