ink like blood

I vow to be happy
with what she can give me
this white bird woman
whose heart is full of the sea,
the endless sea, the endless
open sea, white rollers crashing.
When I lay my head on her chest
I hear its endless roaring cry.
Wordless and yearning, an
unbounded ache; cold yet
burning. The sea is the blood of the earth -
from it all things take their meaning,
in it all things have their birth.
Salt and sweet, fecund and arid,
vast empty spaces teeming with life.
The sea is contradiction, change
and paradox, all and nothing. Much
ink has been spilled upon the shore.
The white bird woman soars above,
out of my reach. Sometimes she
stoops to roost, and lets me touch her,
smooth her feathers,
lay my head upon her chest. In the morning
she is gone, the sunlight winking glitter
on her wings, a disappearing speck into the East.

I have vowed to be happy
with what she can give me -
this white bird woman with
glittering wings. My heart will
make camp at the edge of the sea,
awaiting her promised return.

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