A poem is never finished, Each syllable cradles the last fumes Of morning’s dew, fallacies of night, Spiraling back to the heart of dawn. Who dares to keep slow time As the petals plunge to the ground, Kiss of the tempest-laden winds, In the embrace of the open bosom of the sea, Where lies discarded memories of man. Together we arch our bodies, To the rhythmic purr of nature’s pulse, To share in the symphony with the earthy And the knowing wherein existence dwells.
- Mina Loy