i lay down at the ocean on packed wet sand
just beyond waters changing edge looking at the sea
eye to eye, ear to earth.
i love the crashing water whistle and roar
pounding inside a huge bass note.
an old man, i discover the roar isn’t from wind and surf
or even all the ocean(s) put together
but rather from our dear mother hurtling thru space
my rocketship my mother.
hours passed, on a dry sand shifting dune
ear to dune, same roar slightly softer
days passed, in a rowhouse third floor front room
ear to heart pine, same roar feinter yet
clearly my mother flying
sound of roaring