--and what a wave must be, E.D.
Poet within, -- she nods her head -- always
Her presence merely requires mention
She is dutiful, standing or dancing
My miniature me emerges from me.
She never saw the ocean nor the Sea.
Yet she has seen the Heather anyway.
It holds no mystery that’s not previewed
For it is the answer to a prayer.
And her prey is the moment at hand.
Its hardly-thereness its disappearance,
the soul of its virtuous eloquence
held forward like a nickel a poem.
Arise on the horizon of time’s touch.
The presence of the sun and the moon.
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