Dawn wind ruffles the edges of trees

So fragrant and stately that time

Itself contemplates them, hands folded in

Its lap: they could grow nowhere but

At Belle Ardoise, the mind's sprawling

Unkempt manse, where light and spray

Fuse into a tabla rasa, hollow drum

Whose heads today are stretched

Between rainbow and sea, waiting

Only deft joiners' fingers to be laced

Into resonance and conquer silences

Heard more deeply than any lichen or

Thunder can enunciate.