On ancient Carolina dunes
below sailing clouds,
ever-refreshed foams
of long-gone seas—
we wade morning calm
that used to be glistening lagoons,
straining still to mime
brightness of the sky,
aquamarine blue
where sand below the pines
may never cease to yield
that rustling shine that saved
in grainy seeds unnumbered suns
with eons, measured just so
with one's feet.
Soft-spoken necessity,
freezing down, down
those shoulders,
where affinity unbroken
goes on unspoken—
thus, as not just any poise,
playing proves presence
which, still holding fast,
in reaching out, precedes
taut and unstrung sights
like tones to be picked on
or plucked off a cello's neck,
so the self-same sounding,
seated depth would list
and bow—to a gliding hand.
After rain,
the sky clears
but already
beneath
where our breath
and feet pass,
earth exhales
water that fell
back to the sky.
But that rain
falling from above
is life to trees and grass,
and flowers bloom
like colored sounds
on the ends
of playing flutes.
Thus, in turn,
pipes of scented bloom
send on the trail
of mist and cloud
their elusive breath
that fuses into breeze
until it bears wind
that brings back rain.
