in waxing light,
i rock with the motion of morning;
in the cradle of all that is.
i'm roused from half-sleep
by the spectacle of your
silver-tipped beauty,
cries of the sandpiper.
love is my will, and my way,
and my spirit runs, intermittently,
in and out of the rhythmic waves,
runs with the intrepid shorebirds-
how graceful the skitter before beauty's sea!
in the first rays,
all is a sacred scattering,
a shining.
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