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Let Me Be on Earth, the Same (revised) "This Sea that bares her bossom to the moon. . ." William Wordsworth From a bluff, I view the pulsing Sea rise, and rush to meet her supplicating sand, take to task thin sticks of driftwood affecting poise in spite of her passion. She mouths escaping timbers swirling fast in frantic turning, end over end, sent spinning counter-clockwise. Sea pointedly sighs (spitting mostly briarwood) “Forget stars for now; drink this misted morning from my breasts,” offering cool foamed sea brine. (Sip this scene, else she may not cradle you tonight with cerise skies, fishing boats, murmured songs of sleep as deep calls to fingerling blackberry vines while sky-sailing gulls give contrapuntal cries.) “I never had a mood,” breathes Sea, who answers only to the moon, full, pulling her face closer to mine. She whispers “It’s all part of a grand design.” What posture shall be mine? Shall I lean like Pine, twigs on elbows bent spine bowing slantwise, endlessly tuning sonorous winds who mumble, puffing on her bark? Or emulate Spruce’s angled limbs hanging like suspended dancers from some Breughel scene, one-of-a-kind fractured lines, brittle sisters, happy martyrs to wind’s pull and tug? None of these. I’ve observed her closely as my elemental teacher! Sea’s the force, she’s why this planet’s blue and green -- a fierce but fair source, loving sky and wind as much as land, feigning nothing, gathering life within her swells, then releasing when she will -- no thought of pleasing, simply being: Life’s grand scheme, her aim. Let me be on earth, the same. |
Additional Notes:
With many thanks to CW
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