The Sea

The sea has calm and fault, indigo light spans across the wave, ennobling those who know to depart; a wave greets through long whispers, steps, a quickened spend, so small still unfolds on pace, this eerie purple glance reflects somewhere off. Alignment gripped with open hands, shows it all above in a likened facet, where rudiments can cut through sight— yet such pours happen bare.

Upon shores built inside, crossed minutes blink on sand, it brews swift stones cracking under flood, listening in echoes, where the light remains quiet as if feathery birds want— it brings distance near they come, underneath these, frayed reflections, forming shapes like water might, a massive stream lightly gathered, naturally trembling.

Not tintined between tree or night, but echoes out the way— it knows to bear through—the crashing grace; it unfurls, glancing, alive—a reverberation toward thought, defining every course stored in wands, yet far beyond is what becomes through nature.

• Marianne Moore