Flood curve, the edge of pure form, mutable,
The fluid self shaped by what is,
Not itself contained, unmoving, sculpted to hold,
Like a still symphony of bronze,
Held to the shape of image in one swept expression.
In its essence, the sea sings without score,
And, never defined, all blossoms,
Is a rose in turquoise, leaved with foam.
Surf flower, forever unfolding anew,
In clarity, glass petals intemperate, metamorphosis,
The sea sings without score, in many waters,
And is flooded, in hot translucence,
With the colors of air and sky,
Made fields of wild harmony,
Forever surges unwritten.