What of the sea
and her winsome aria?
To where is it she carries?
In a song that calls to shore
the saline soils of the lost
and found,
rested
revived.
Nameless siren of the bounding main
where doth she nurture promise?
Is it to be found in the caves of crests,
that best, the dimples
of humble mediation?
Or in tides of sweet whispers
uttered in the foamy meetings
of she and me.
It and I.
It and I.
What of the sea
and her beauty abundant?
Can paint afford her spirit?
To catch a rhythm that contests
the specious claims of an erratic nature
dithering.
No.
Dancing.
Courteous Delilah of the East and West
shall we meet in languid stumbles?
Or may I consign,
like the moonflower swallows
the hollows of soft beams at eventide
surrendering each time
as Peace too offers her hand
and we melt,
the belts of Titian hues upon horizons.
