She Sings Me Into Wild

The waves are writhing monsters, I am captivated. Such wildness calls to me.

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She Sings Me Into Wild


The blue-green surf
Lies quietly sleeping.
Our sun throws off
Its rippling shimmers
‘Cross her midst like
Flirty, little flute songs
Or smooth, skimming rocks.
I do not visit then.

The winds commence to stir;
White-bubbled froth rises.
The gentle currents bulge
With short, wheezy bursts
Which thirst for mutinies.
I stop my work to listen.
I notice. I ponder. I sigh,
But still, I do not go.

Then, the winds grow stern.
They begin to sweep, to frolic
With gusts of "whoosh" or "soosh."
I stroll then. I jog. I run.
For I know, suspended inside
These winds of rebellion,
Lies the very song
I've set out to see.

Once there, by her bosom,
I witness the pounding violence,
The rolling, roving twitches
Of the tiny, skipping pebbles.
So commences the Mother
Of every wild, wildness.
She rouses into turmoil,
Violently churning the surf.

I feel the tremors of her boogie
Through my dirty, unshod feet.
The joyful fish spring up
Bubbling gill-smiles of delight.
The turbulence is tickling them
Inside their liquidy fields of green.
Thus does the storm incite my joining.
For then, she sings me into wild.



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