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


Up next: where is the heart?