Seal Cove Inn

I allow myself the feeling of peace here,

close enough to the ocean to hear its incessant roar,

but removed from the sight of its unflinching power:

foam capped waves running into an impassive form

which shapes and which is shaped.

Lessened, beyond eyes ken, the sound

becomes a subtle undercurrent of knowing

like the awareness that at earth's core all is molten

and the curst upon which we walk, if not illusion

is but a sequential structuring of the river of time

Entombed in the now like an insect in tree sap

I wonder if my words with their unseemly inclusions

will be understood as a warning?

Can a writer transform ugliness into beauty

by putting time on a page?