Green waters, silk as chitin, undulating
neath crimped love;
a whisper moves mountains if one
swells, peel off the grief, the bitter
banquet is swiped from the tabletop and
the body, breathes.
Shoreline is in the distance. Making
prophecies, sheering wool and covering
sins in heavy
warmth, daring to move with the
waves just so, as a pebble
to be washed up, and claimed
under the sun. I haven’t
the soul to fight the tides;
yet, not the heart
to be done.