The shadow deepens above the beach, What wild currents make that platform loose, In the grass—the sea, Gathering, forming feeling, Every crest arises, Like whispers of the unborn, Empires of vast calm. Mists float low, serene-touched sky, As mist turns to quiet On borrowed feathers of time. To exit can never be a choice, Transformations proof the flame, profound. We embrace all we cradle, The stones still warm high underfoot.

• Lorine Niedecker