Feeling gauche, I choose to drift around,
To ride on the wind of hay that’s mad and loud,
To bathe in the cold silence of myself,
In the seamless embrace of the angry sun,
As the child’s voice in me lilting up and down.
I can see the others, only their hazy forms.
Everywhere on that white and blue canvas
Are the light and shade warring with blazing horns,
Drowning the waves below as if He commands,
Calming the friendly ocean’s belligerent mind.
I’m tired and morose, but still I sing and flap-dance:
There is goodness in aloneness, I realize.
I can see God from up here and feel His hands,
As I partake of His sweet, recalcitrant love,
Writing ethereal poems in the sand.