Monday, May 21, 2007


The breathing Sea
Exhaling depths into mist—
Up from churning—
From cold and dark
Into the grace of Air—
Then distilled on heights—
Lighting delicate on
Pristine sylvan pools

This newborn clarity of breath
Commingling with the final gasp of fish
Who die serene
Eyes wide
Rest at last
Flaking scarred gray flanks
All their spark passed on to gleaming eggs.

Nebulous conglomerates of almost life
Protected only by their number—

Breathing in.

The water whispering
The knowing spawn
Knowing only Now
Turn the stillness to teeming—
Swarming hive of silver flash
Voracious—tasting all—
All seasoned by the salt blood
Of the sea breath distilled.

Then running down easy—
Those not taken in the first feeding—
From egg beds and shallows
Down winding mountain rivulets
Knowing only gravity and current—
Matching blood to fresh water—
Knowing just.
Prevailing currents jostle them into sundry fates.
Some surge—some flail.

Most are taken early—
Talon and Tooth.
Sacrificed to the River
Without mourning—
Culled and knowing only seeking.
Growing as a mass even as their number wanes.

Multitudes left behind.
Put to tail without ceremony.
The current moves, moving them,
Then moving in them—
Teaching tide.

Clinging to their ranks
They spill out into endlessness.
Deep blue unknowable
Forever in every direction.
Swallowing them whole.

Fully awakening
Home becoming here as the blood
Knowing now in being changed
And claimed.
Sea and soul and self
Surging in and through and by
And none without the other

Now they cruise deep easy currents
Following food
And being followed.
Culled as they feast.
Knowing now
The sea feeds as it feeds.
The membranes of spheres touch—
To exchange the synonyms
Life and Death.

Fattened by abundance
Strengthened by necessity
Their teeming mass diversified
Into strong and stronger.
The sea
Having filtered out the weak and sick
Breathes again.
Chill depths pass through
The muscles taught with tide
And now they know the mist.
They feel the breath

They are the hand—the tide—
Surging silver spotted sea fingers
Reaching out to the breath.
They cannot know the grace of air
Or be distilled upon the heights—
Not yet.
They must rise up and climb the origins
Know the choice:

Strive—or swim in tiny circles
Missing the cycle.
Penultimate transformation
Or deep blue infinite dead end.
The only choice is to become.
Or not.
The beginning and the end:
The sea that comes and goes
And never came nor went.

So they must go.
They make their choice.
Having chosen they forsake all else.
Clear to the purpose
As strife prepares for strife
They strive against the self same current
That once cradled them
In Gravity’s simple necessary fall.

Even now there are claws
And gaping jaws
And hooks and waterfalls—
Nothing goes their way
Except their infinite will
The sea
Striving against and for itself
Caving in on itself
And churning up again.
They might not span the falls
On the first leap—

Why should they know the way
Or recognize the place?
They flow with blood.
And hear the blood tide whispering:
Most never made it this far.
Chance deserves,
But accident is winnowed early on
And all along.
Arrive or not,
The Grace, the Strength—
The élan of mighty effort
Is destiny enough.

Heights achieved,
Here is the spawning ground—
Again—and new.
Only in the cleansed and cleansing
Clear and calm
Of great heights
Can the seeds of immortality be sown
The final glorious act
Seasoned, enhanced,
By the impossible opposition of the way.

Eyes wide
Rest at last
Sparkling gray flanks shiver with release.
The spark—
The legacy—
Submission omni victory
The egg’s potentiality perfection.

Still diffuses through the pool.
Not because they floated there
By chance.


Blogger beLLa said...

i do love gibran.
i also love pablo neruda.

7:51 PM  

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