Ocean visitor on dark sands. Once was far off, a world beyond. Same visitor. Sitting still, listening, wondering, what may be. Every exhale, every inhale seizes, draws in deep, persistent shivers. The organ(ism) world pumps, is alive, sends waves, nudges minute and month , or other ideas, to follow. Strictly human ideas. Caressing glass and metal into the beating heart, names and numbers too, wiping now or later all concept of form, of need, of want, of past and future. Not driven by emotion or aim. Only the rhythmic, natural, convulsion, coming and going, giving and receiving life. Wave emerging, wave retreating.

Is a song a roar? The foam on moving mass, does it blow out candles and hum a blessing to life? Or, occurs the ocean in a shell, a curved bell, resounding all known and unknown? Word on word, thought on thought slipping away. And then, what remains? That too may be a concept, a hope, a holding on. What if nothing remains?

The ocean quivers inside the visitor. The visitor steps out of shoes and falls into heart. The heart opens and closes. It pumps not with purpose. The visitor stops, drops the cloak, walks naked as ocean, as universe, speaks only as wave, turns to rock and tree and grass, and dust, and is heard no more. Ocean heart beats, presses in, presses out as it must. As it must.

(Just is, here to blossom and to flower, and to grow and die, and grow and die. Hopefully without suffering. What more do I know? What more needs be known?)