The sea is like a great green mother,
whose silky arms hold secrets I cannot know.
Ah, the unseen dark of her bosom,
the little silver, wriggly things that glow
far beneath her silky tides —
the feminine mysteries of her insides:
the unfickle ebb and unfickled flow
urged by the fickle moon;
the way she sighs her little waves
and splashes little tunes.
If I was a fish I would tickle her ribs —
flash and twirl, spin and drop —
through her seething, salty, sanguine soul
until the stars should gasp and stop
their song upon her starry mirror —
and I, grown fish-old and soul-woke clearer,
would dip a last dive below sea sight,
and fall like lightning into Light.
A poem that Ribaldo makes up for a little girl in the second chapter of a novel that shall be… waiting on the back burner of the old wood burning stove.