This is an old story
the burbling of language’s mother
the arc of the narrative in tides

Once upon a time
it was all there was
the liquidity of orbs
and even now
with rock and leaf and
squawking flyers
we define ourselves
in the syntax of shores

Listen. These vibrations
from water and wind
they’re not meant for sleeping
whiting out the story with noise
so civilization can snooze its way to the end

Here is the first fable
the parable of waves
where impulse eventually
washes up on land
It is an old story
we stop telling
at our peril.

 

© KL Robyn 30 Aug 2012

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