it's the crashing of the wave,
and the rythm of the dance.
it's the constant push and pull
of earth and moon.
it's the tug of heart and hand,
and the tickle of the sand.
it's the bashful sun's forgotten night
and the baleful woman's cry.
it's the scratch of nib on paper
and the warp and woof of time.
it's the sound of trumpet blaring
and the gleeful cry of even
when lamb and wolf lie down.
— © 2016 rlbusséll