Meditation on Form (poem)

                                            --for Caitlin Thomas

So you would have us boom, then, the word
Inarticulate, and howl the moon--indeed,
Whisper magic, hymn the song most inward
To the cliff-limned voicings of this morning's sea;
But sons of man amid the ceaseless churning
Of these ever-becoming tides, you'd yet have us write
The notes of time's tuneless turning,
Inscribe the stops that play out our light.

But outside, through rain-soiled panes, I see
Her poised, her diver's plumbed touch cleave the wind,
And find tongue stopped as I strain to read
Her outflung form with sun and sea contend.

The light belied, mute black signs encrypt the dawn;
The night denied, frail white hands shape this song.