On the still skin of the ocean
That comes so gently in today,
As if its curls won't make a sound.
Even in the caves, the echo serves
To slow, for all that people do not know,
All restless words inside its rush.
A lone crane glissandos on the glass,
Which moves like marks of punctuation
Towards birds on their white island, flicking wings
The way a pianist shakes her fingers
After a strenuous barcarole.
Their beaks aim toward the sky;
What miracles can they dream of
Beyond the veil of infinite haze,
As close as heaven gets, most days?
The seaweed blossoms rise with the beat of tide
That sighs enough to cover every rock with froth.
On the bluffs an assembly line of bees
Shuttle lavender ambrosia to secret hives.
All that's missing is us, so unlike the things
That move across the day with the shadows.
But then the mermaid catches us
In the gauzy selkie eyes of seals
On distant rocks, refusing to let us
Pretend that we have disappeared.
They are keenly aware of how we see,
For they must not be alone in observing
How the water turns slowly purple,
The white foam transforms into pearl,
The sun becomes a thing of beauty,
What everyone can be on any day.
