Sand Writing

I'm finding my voice,
and the clouds are in a hurry today.
Unconcerned with anything I might say,
taking the day along
pinned to the underside with grey:
glowering, looming, silky, and luminous.

I'm searching for my voice
and remembering you saying
it takes a long time for a writer
to build a reputation.

I read others for the first time,
getting to know strangers on paper,
one-dimensional bleeding from edges.
They seem like foreigners
who will never be friends, too clever
for the likes of me. Not false modesty,
but clinging to the tendrils
of my privacy.

I have a voice, but where will it take me?
I sing for free, on damp sands,
to the percussion of a rolling sea
where clouds cut loose from continents.

I harmonize with shells as they echo back
the murmur of a mermaid's murmuring.
There are friends for me and sounds for me
beneath the rushing clouds,
before the shushing sea.

I roam the shorelines where waves glissade
and sea horses prance up and paw the shingle
and would carry me. I'd love to go
but here I write and chant chansons
until the water smooths my letters flat again.

I seek a sound in rhythm
with the falling rain
the rising wind
the creeping sea
the rippled sand
and dimpled rock,

I seek a sound that's only found
in me.