sends sprouting
mountains of surf
onto the low tide glass
Where thereoms collide
and play,
lines of argument
intersect
and form shapes
in response to sea facts.
Oh but we're beckoned in
to the play,
to go in it
with breakers
and spray,
To know we are known
and that our
seemingly random
offerings
to nowhere
are part of the tide,
And to sense their pride
that we know
they are there
needing, like any
heart,
to be known.
The shore is a still pool
now
from here, pulling in
the emptiness
of sky.
What needed to be
conveyed
was,
nothing is left
to be said.
