Nets to catch the wind

By

Earth's emptiness fills again, Hill and mountain hued in reds Of ruby, rose, and sun Set at dusk over windworn seas Awaiting the fishers of stars.

Shapes draped in shadow advance, Clawtracks scrawled on sand Not meant to last. Thin fingers of water tell time By hieroglyphs. The seawall cracks.

Gulls gather for the feast - Dry land, the green of spring. What thrives is obdurate: the ark, Root crumbling rock, seed sprung from floods That washed the old world clean.

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We glean treasure from lost empires, The nets of our arms Raised in jubilation, faces lit From within, stone masks Broken and discarded.

It is hard to see the starred sky Over bare white shoulders Bereft of wings downswept by wind. Weary fishers cast for light As long as sea and evening last.

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