Light in the foam
And capillary sluices
And the seaweed fur colors
The ridged extrusions
Like waves
Caught
Frozen
Even the snails are restless
Pulling lines of force
Through shining pools
Like checkers
Rocks like cracked eggs
Mottled with barnacles
Hermit crabs scurry like Atlas
Bearing translucent spirals
The froth is a white never seen before,
A new bubbling from the black hole,
As the pockmarked rocks that fill us with data
Like the breakers that fill the caves
Are instants old, not pulling back
Like the bolts of current
In the tide,
But here where what they have
To say
Is learned
In whatever way
It needs to be
Re-absorbed
By its maker,
Invisible and far away,
Whose contours of thought
Would not be followed
Without this jagged promontory
Waiting to snuff out the sun
And living in a moving world
Of shadows.
The crabs wait for the waterfall,
The blast of passionate expression,
Reactive to something,
Speaking of somewhere,
Sharing without yielding itself,
Its prompt --
It simply reiterates,
As if that is enough,
For us to feel some sense
Of its urgency,
Its recasting of some beauty,
How fractures cannot quite recall
The unity
Temporary
Like a giant lake
In a ripped-away valley
Below the granite whorls
So dense with implication
They crush in on themselves
Tide pools
Fish flickering
To create a perception of emptiness
And depth,
What we can do whatever we need with,
Which is not really our need at all.
Farther up the cliffs, where the water
Begins its descent into community,
There's a last fringe
Of individual glamour,
A sounding leap of itself
Against the stone
Remembrance
As the consummate fluff
That seems to devour the bush
With accumulated wisdom of itself
And waits for the wind to send it to seed
To lie dormant as death
Until it rises again
Fully formed
Learning again what seems new,
Through different filterations,
Like the cries of the dogs at new strangers,
The bleating of frogs through new mouths,
Though it is crisp and nascent fall,
When scents pervade
The beige ganglia,
And one white flower
Stands in for life itself,
For even then is remembered
What is yet to be discovered
Only moments away,
The water doesn't move
As much as fold over,
Calling attention to the sunlight
That has punctured its veil
With inquisitive musings
Trembling the trees
In mirror upon mirror
Upon mirror
As the current gurgles down in joy
Like a marimba concert,
Tones to hold the light,
Tones to go from thought to thought
In harmonious alignment
With the supple nebular glow
Of all that is valued
In our vault of heart
For no other reason than it is what is there,
What we are made of,
Though it shines here only in infintesimals
Of the dark stream flow.
But everything is listening,
Tuning to what isn't in the sound,
The same thing that is trapped
In the hillside glare
Of gold,
Inexpressible.
