Cape Cod girls don’t cry for the tide,
they braid the salt into their hair at night;
their laughter rides the white-cap crest,
a silver hook in the moon’s pale breast.
They kiss the storm until it sleeps,
then steal its thunder for their dreams to keep.
When the fog rolls in like a lonesome hymn,
they dance barefoot on the pier’s dark rim—
hips swaying slow to a phantom drum,
singing “home is the sea and the sea will come.”