Gulf Burden 

And now the storm has passed but night has not yet come.
The sky is yellow, vast and clean. The music from
the broad green staves is spilling in measure after measure,
the sweet andante filling the air with liquid treasure,
a balm for weary ears chafed by arguments
and inundating fears. The ache for evidence
and safety only finds the crashing surf, both rough
and tender—strength that grinds and shapes discarded stuff
into a sprawling sweep of shining softness, full
of wonders. Soon we’ll sleep, but still the push and pull
will wash the scalloped shore with froth beneath the moon—
random, ordered roar—limpid, cryptic tune—
relentless, faithful force—surge and swell unending,
with no apparent source—breaking, soaking, mending.