Oceans of Whales
I don't want it to be perfect. A few things broken. Withered leaves.
The high sky can be an uglier shade of blue. I might even grow fond of that.
I want children on the lawn
Their tears taken away in the buckets of a firemen's brigade.
Oceans filled by crying that never happened.
Leviathans feeding above coral beds.
I have so many questions. I don't want it to stop now.
I had no idea it would be so beautiful. Thorns on the roses are beautiful.
Age spots on the old man's face.
Cheese melting on a hamburger while I was trying to be a vegetarian.
Like a yellow bedsheet, landing gently on a grey mattress.
The corners grabbing hold like claws of a cartoon canary.
Asleep not knowing I was asleep.
Awake not knowing I am awake.
Everything no less tragic than it is wonderful.
Painful yearning as poignant as a baby being born.
We live with Oceans of Whales.
I don't want to be pretend poetic.
How can I break through all of that to say
we stand here in the not-far-distant company of oceans.
Oceans in tumultuous activity.
Oceans churning with compassion.
Oceans infiltrated with generousity.
Lively with powerful fins flapping
The surf spray hitting the rocks
The plankton moving like a cumulous cloud
An eye, enormous as a basketball.
A body, extended into the darkness.
We are here and we are all of that.
The Eighth Sea spinning with a multitude of whales.