I’m sorry for the old wharves
Because they have to stand
With the sea all round their wooden knees
And never run to land
If they grow tired. They have to stay
In their places night and day.
Tilted backwards, gray and worn
From salty tides that flow
Dark green at high-water mark,
Weedy-brown at low—
It never stops surprising me
How they can stand so patiently!