A shack by the sea, a
bit of broken paper
lost in the breeze from
off the Sound, dancing
along the brink
in irregular fits and
starts, enjoying the
randomness of it, or at
least I would, if I were
paper.
A view from the shack, a
cracked window looking
over the vast cradle swinging
back and forth, rocked by
the moon, and the frothing
edge singing over
stones, weeping for all
the earth’s groaning, still
gleaming, still holding
the beauty of sacred life.
Not Quiet Any More 