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Sky Over Kleine Bonaire
Three white caps on a dark glossy swell
sweep toward sunny green lappings, sand,
rocks, and scruffy, lizard-threaded brush.
Overhead, sun-leavened, tumultuous waves
of cloud seek their own shore, in their
slow passing, finding the time to entertain
themselves, improvising an epic,
whorled without end,
pantomimed adventures of form in the land
of light. The dappled ocean, too, rumbles
its tales. You could float on that surge
and feel its free fierce fomenting of forms,
but its freest form is cloud, which is
where the ocean tells us what floating is
and of the free-formed tendrilled, speckled,
goggled, jewelled, spined and spiraled life
that sways, darts and uncoils within it.
See how the poofs of cloud rise from the water
like its thoughts. Our bodies, too,
rose from that soup of form. Cover
your ears--you can hear its thunder still.
The clouds and our forms are ocean's dreams
or what we dream it dreams, we
who make light of everything.
October 5, 2002