My anenome essence
blossoms like the lotus flower,
clarinet falsettos weeping in the afternoon.
This ebbing home,
my seashell heart,
a prayered and lovely secret mollusk,
curved and tender,
pure.
Bowls of sparkling seaweed brine, Shakti’s mighty ocean,
pool and curl my wetland home,
my flowing algae shore.
To you, although,
I am a rock’s
stubborned old
barnacle lone,
spitting your deafened eye
with watersalt.
So have then my shell —
my hollow, brittle shell,
but that, to you, is all.
And thus, and thus,
I shall remain
with the rhythmed, lilting, crying tides —
my mournful, breaking Sound,
forever mine.