Seaside

The morning’s maiden waves, each creeping claw
the dark and dewy shoreline, gentle, soft,
yet full of nature's willful might. They paw,
they swell and curl, then lapping leap! Aloft
the salted lea, ascending, combing cold
the sand; again, again, a chorus rote.

They paw, and paw and claw, and cresting fold
before the patient shore. The misty boats
and bayside birds a-sail, each distant dressed
in morning, floating silently in flight,
above, behind the waxing waves. A guest,
I wordless watch them kiss the dawning light.

I watch, I watch the round horizon burn,
and each wave crested, waning white return.