"Froth."
When the sea pours out under the bridge, over the dam.
At every outgoing of the tide, there
is ravishing serendipity of froth.
I stand on a 100-year-old millstone.
Froth gathers on the turbulence of the waters.
Abundant, fresh, puffed up.
For hundreds of feet, small cliffs, bluffs,
towers form and seethe from the turbulent center, outward
gliding, improbable as heaven.
Like a child's view of heaven.
How could anything so frail seem so permanent?
How could anything so sheer evade destruction?
These are things of imagination, floating slowly away.
A white suds against blue water.
White over blue.
A too much of nothing, strangely become everything.
Froth dominating the presence of the world.
Cliffs, bluffs, towers, and castles passing by.
It is good that everything has turned to froth.
Magical froth of truth going out to sea.
While I stand on the millstone, solid and gray,
I hear the airy shapes whispering infinity.