Here's Wayfarer:
Wayfarer
At Ithaca
my waves begin,
who juggle sand,
who gather in
the wrack of land
and cast it up
upon the sea.
This is no common
tapestry.
I weave them gold
and green and grey
to the horizon
where they break.
I ravel in
the shuttle's wake.
And each day's labour's
lost, they say.
They do not see
how, slowly, the
horizon line
is worn away.
Some even tide
the night will fail
(it is but weft)
and day reveal
my landfall: as
you know, your sail.
You can find the other seven here.
Word has reached us in our suburban onion field that Amanda has had yet another poem, from another collection that is in process, accepted by Poetry Magazine. Congrats!
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