Sea-Map Hilda Morley Taste of salt on my fingers, that’s how I like it: the line of sea rising above the dark-green pine, the sea meeting the horizon, so always the eyes are lifted higher, the pulse buoyed upward with them So it should be for us all— to belong to whatever moves us outward into the wideness, for journeying, tales of distant places, treasures piled to fill our smiling, for us to know of along the travelled coastline, the mountains we can climb to, each port, each harbor another window to wash our faces in, pull us forward & made for us, made for all of us, as the birds know, who fly the continents, the oceans for their secret reasons, a map of the earth written inside their bodies, marked under their breastbones: a continuance of the now most fragile, always travelled patiently enduring world
not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.