Mother seas conquered,
Now, man at war with himself,
  .  .  .  Labyrinth of the shell.

Hair reigns, scent of her,
She sleeps late by a window,
Morning meadow sun.

There is better place,
Distant birds fly to and from,
Light behind mountain.

Petals of flower—
Impossible freshness, breaks day,
Her eyes opening.

I stack the round stones
From the river, my sculpture grows—
Crow will knock it down.

Water nymph, you are the gentle wind
Bursting the daisy, your eyes, are bells
Of blue echinacea spiriting the light—
Echoing sound which water makes, ring
The laureled forest leaves in cathedrals
Newly sprung of pews, meadows, spark,
The dance of bees, who trace your honey
Scent in combs of ambrosia and sunshine.
The miraculous waters are floored under
Your white, lily petals of feet, your nests
Of hair are embracing tendrils of the wild
Grape, wine and sweet, long forgetfulness.
Maid of the wood, daughter to the moon;
Are you of Elysium or temptress of doom?

Outside light is cold,
Sleet sousing naked branches,
Whole world shivering.

One last winter walk—
Little clouds falling all round,
Snowfields between us.

Perfect verse once lost,
Now haunted by clawing dreams,
She was that poem.