Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

-- Lord Tennyson

O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire, and behold our home!

-- lord Byron, from The Corsair

Strange flight, the body
Held at a threshold
And never quite freed

Or quite revealed—
One wing taut with wind,
One wing concealed

Until the wind grows calm
And it shimmers in a shadow-world,
The shape of a sail, yet softer—

The drifting boat
A bird half in air,
Half in water.

— Heather Allen

A perfume like a sweet plum,
sugary kisses on the teeth,
vital drops trickling down your fingers,
sweet erotic pulp.

Threshing floors and haystacks,
inciting secret hideaways,
mattresses with a hidden past.

The pungent green valley seen
from the roof above.
All young love, wet and burning
like a lantern tipped in the rain.

In autumn, high arrows, renewed oblivion, fall from the popular.
Feet plunge into the pure blankets.

The aroused leaves coldness
is a dense fountain of gold.

A spiny splendor sets the dry
candelabras of bristling statues near the sky.

And, the yellow cougar scent a live of droplet
between its claws.

Another trip three months ago to Patagonia, the wildest wilderness in South America, outside of what is left of the Amazon.

A quick, ten day trip to the remote parts of Bolivia; stark beauty with occasional displays of color.

To all, to all…

to whomever I do not know, to whomever never

heard my name, to those we dwell

all along our vast shores,

at the foot of snow-packed mountains. 

To fisherman and farmhands,

to Indians thriving on their territorial lands,

of lakes sparkling blue glass,

to the craftsman who at this very hour questions,

fashioning wood with ancient, weathered hands.

To you, 

to the one who unknowingly has awaited me,

I belong and acknowledge and sing.

Here I found love.

It was borne in the sand,

it grew without out voice,

touched the flintstones of hardness,

and resisted death.

Here mankind was life that joined

the intact light, the surviving sea,

and attacked, sang and fought

with the same unity of metals.

Here cemeteries were nothing but

turned soil, dissolved sticks

of broken crosses over which

the sandy winds advanced.