“I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?
Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass,
That am a timid woman, on her way
From one house to another!”
—Edna St. Vincent Millay

This week we learned of deaths and rumours of death—of biological conclusions and metaphoric imaginings.

I thought of writing something elegiac, by way of tribute or expiation.

I thought of writing something dark, or something deep, or something dim. I decided that I live enough among the dim, dark deep somethings that make day melt into dusk.

I thought instead of the sounds within—the constant ebb and flow of the human biological processes.

The heart itself proves not to be a valentine, but four valves.
I walked a beach in Florida one week, accompanied by ibis dancing in the sand; in Sanibel, where the beaches feature thousands upon thousands of sea shells.

When I pick up the shells, I can trace the valves, and feet, and places of departure—and hear the roar, and dream of valves, which open, close, open close. Surge, flow.
Open.
Close.

Wonderful samples. Many thanks for those who posted them.